


Mean it (and break me down)

by Ysmiyr



Series: The Witcher Cliché Rounds [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and fluff and humor, Autistic Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Based on the books and games but you don't need to have seen either, Bodyswap, Dialogue Heavy, F/F, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt has fangs and an accent bc i said so, Geralt isnt emotionally constipated he is just terrified, Geralt's Big Emotions TM, Geralt's absurdly self hating inner monologue, Geralts #sad backstory, Gratuitous use of my archeological degree and my obsession with all things medieval, I feel the need to reiterate they are both danger sluts of the highest tier, Jaskier | Dandelion Has ADHD, M/M, Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Talking about his noble background and university training, The Witcher Lore, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher mutations and their fucked up results, a bit of crack, as is expected witht his kind of trope, oblivious idiots in love, slowest of burns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysmiyr/pseuds/Ysmiyr
Summary: “Oh you b-” Jaskier naked hand is clamping down on Geralt's mouth before he can say anything else and it requires all the strength he now has to keep the witcher from squirming out of his grasp. The witch looks more amused by the second and every inch of her smile seems to make Geralt want to gauge her eyes out with spoons.“Care to explain?”“It will pass, less than a full month. How awful can it be?” Jaskier knows he isn't imagining her sneer then.“Are you serious?” Geralt twitches his mouth out from under the pale hands and spats the question in a high pitched voice that makes the bard cringe on how much it would hurt in the morning."orThe one where Jaskier and Geralt get bodyswapped.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher Cliché Rounds [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644076
Comments: 178
Kudos: 968





	1. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen. I did NOT intend to become so obsessed with this. But i am. Now all of you gotta suffer with me.  
> Making a round on the most cliche witcher fics, starting with the body swap one, bc its always fun.  
> Disclaimer, my dudes: English isn't my mother language, so any mistakes in spelling or wrong tone when trying to write a character that does not speak perfect english, pLEASE tell me. I took the series visual, but personality and all the rest comes from an ungodly mixture of book and game canon. No need to have played/read, but just keep it in mind. I love the lore of the series so it will be lore-heavy but fear not, for i will do my best to explain it. Also, for whomever thinks it useful I use this map as reference (sorry the long link, i dont know how to format in this site)  
> https://www.reddit.com/r/witcher/comments/3cep25/probably_the_most_detailed_map_of_the_continent/

The notice board is empty when they ride into Carreras. Usually that is something that would have made Geralt groan internally at his bad luck, but nowadays more often than not work is never too hard to find, as people seem to make up any excuse to talk to the witcher. That is not to say every time he takes the work, or that he likes it, or that it is in his area of expertise, but hey. Sometimes all Geralt needs is a distraction, a purpose. Looking for a party of dead lads that thought for sure they could hunt a pack of wolves was better than sitting at the local tavern looking at Jaskier prance about feeling that queasy thing in his chest wriggle like a worm, at the mere thought of being...kept. Like a wild animal, like a pet. He hated it.

He did not hate it.

There is, as he expected, work to be done once they arrive at the inn. Two different ones are thrown at him, the women speaking over each other as if screaming louder would make him prone to take her problems on first. He only felt a pounding inside his head.

“Ladies, ladies! Now, is that proper manners to treat a hero? He will listen to all your woes.... _Later_. We have been traveling for weeks and a bath, a warm meal and good ale would be about everything to make us the happiest men on the Continent.” Jaskier cut in when became apparent Geralt wouldn't say anything to the still prattling women. Relatives, he thought, for they had the same auburn hair and the same slanted eyes. They did not seem to get along.

“Yes, of course! How rude of you, Prenira; what would father say? Or better, what would your bethr-”

“Don't start on this again, you witch! You threw yourself forward just as much as I did, I see no reason-”

“That's rather the point ain't it? You didn't see, and so-”

“Shut your gob! If you hadn't-”

“Aaand, now's the time we slip away” Jaskier said, ducking under the flailing arms of the two women, tugging a very constipated looking Geralt along by the leather straps on his forearm.

The bard didn't let go of him while he asked for a room, food and drink to be sent up and didn't let go of him when prodding the old man behind the bar for information on the screaming banshees on the middle of the tavern.

“They always been like that. Never got along, not as kids, not as grown lasses. I have half the mind to send them away to the temple.” The lines on his face were very deep and he looked very tired. “Been worse lately, though. Wager they on a spat over some man of the village over; they came by yesterday with some soldiers in training.” He passed them the keys to their room, a double one, and leaned in to whisper in a somewhat desperate voice,

“Listen. If there is something running in them that ain't... natural. I got not much more to me name beside this inn, but by the gods I will find a way to repay you.” Geralt felt a stab of pity for the man, and gave him a tiny nod. Jaskier laughed, the malicious tone to it not present to anyone not accustomed to it.

“We will do everything in our power, fear not! As soon as we are fed, and clean, of course.” The bard seemed very adamant about that, too. They had eaten around lunch time, but Geralt could agree with the bath coming first.

\---

And it had been all fine, really. They were clean, they were full, the tavern had a good enough wine in serving and Jaskier was happy enough to not complain about not having much attention for the tavern was also very full.

And _then_ , the door slammed open in the middle of one of his songs, six people in askew cloaks and wild hair standing there, eyes tormented. Only one of them had a sword and only two were men.

“Is there one Geralt of Rivia present?” The silence was deafening. Geralt blinked slowly, eyes going to Jaskier out of habit. The bard looked very unsure of what he should be doing.

“Who's asking?” The witcher punched out, low and gravely, before anyone could escalate the situation to a brawl over interrupting the music.

Two of the women, the ones in front, went to him without waiting. The other four stayed at the door, swaying in their feet. Jaskier turned back to the room, shouting his excuses and calming the people who screamed at him to keep going. It wasn't as if Geralt _needed_ him right next to him now, it wasn't as if Geralt couldn’t handle six people on his own , unarmed, but it was... _something,_ to see Jaskier consistent choice to be by his side.

“Are you him? The famous wolf of Rivia?” The woman had the most striking reddish brown eyes, and her voice was raspy. Geralt nodded, wary. The other one, the one with blond hair spoke next, softer and melodic,

“We are in desperate need of your aid, master witcher. Pardon my companion's manners but we need help, post haste. Won't be a moment to explain.” She begged, and maybe her blue eyes, so alike and so unlike Jaskier's own was what made him so readly agreeable.

“Sit, then.” Geralt said, beckoning the people from the door too. The blond took a seat next to him. Almost immediately, Jaskier appeared on his other side, where he glued himself to Geralt's side as he usually does when his neck is being threatened. The witcher spares him a questioning glance, never used to the bard's easy touches, but as the he doesn’t seem in outright panic Geralt leaves it alone, trying to ignore the hand using his arm as rest. The heat from it is distracting and it feels like its burning through his skin.

“Well? All that anticlimactic interruption for nothing? Speak, woman.” Jaskier demanded. The other people that just joined them at the table looked jittery. The red eyed woman had a very convincing impression of a stone wall and the blond just gave them a nervous smile.

“You see, that's the thing. No one we consulted with could do anything, so it might just be for nothing. But Vyrle here was sure that if no one else could, you could. I think that is a bit unfair, putting so much responsibility into you, but I must agree we are all at a loss of what to do. At least, you might know where to point us.” She said quickly, agitated. “I am Fayin. But I was born Zina.” She pointed to the red eyed woman, silent at her side. “And she was born Fayin, but now she is Zina.”

“What. Wait. What do you mean, you exchanged bodies? All of you? How does that even happen?" Jaskier said, still glued to Geralt's side but clearly less hostile.

“I suppose that in a sense, we did. But it sure as fuck isn't only the bodies that changed, for I greatly dislike the male form but at the present moment I am stupidly attracted to the bard.” Said one of the twins at the edge of the table, annoyed. Her frown was almost ferocious enough to rival Geralt's own, and the other twin cringed hard and crumpled upon herself. It wasn't difficult to guess that she would very much appreciate the ground opening up to swallow her.

“Oho, well now-”

“All of you? When did this happen?” Geralt repeated, inclining forwards to block Jaskier from view. His indignant splutter told the witcher that the message was received and promptly disregarded.

“About four moon's back.” One of the men said, low and meek. It was unsettling considering his bulging, enormous arms and bald head. “We went into a hunt, of a sort. We are colleagues from university.” He explained. The other man, the one with the sword, and the blond, Fayin, seemed very uncomfortable at the mention.

“A hunt.” Geralt stated. He sighed, leaning back again. Jaskier huffed and stole his full, still untouched tankard. “From university. What exactly where six students, six _very human students_ going hunting for?”

“Well. That's the thing. Vevri lost a bet to Zina so he had to go with them, in whatever the expedition was. Ailli and Aigim here were hell bent that a fairy would give you six wishes if you could trick one into captivity.” Said the bald man. “I still don't rightly know what they wanted the wishes for, and I knew this was a bad idea, you never fuck around with faeries right? I'm not dumb, I knew it would end something like this, but if my brother went I couldn't very well leave him to it alone, could I?” He murmured. Geralt heard him just fine. He wishes he hadn't.

“Congratulations.” The bard said, turning to the twins. “You have angered a fairy. Or maybe an entire pack of them. Do fairies have packs, Geralt? I suppose they must, are they considered people? Monsters? What are they?”

“Fairies.” He answered, deadpan. “Faeries don't grant wishes, they aren't Djinns. And even if some could offer you one for a certain task, it's never worth the payoff. They are mischievous and chaotic by nature, misguiding for their own amusement.” He shaked his head, pinching his eyes shut until he saw colorful butterflies behind them.

“You are saying we were cursed?” The twin that was still mortified asked, face red. Jaskier threw her a wink that made her slide lower in the chair and fix her eyes on a stain on the table.

“Likely. The good part is that curses can be broken. What _exactly_ happened? No detail is too small.”

As if on cue, the two redheaded women from before sauntered the table, the shorter one leading.

“If you pardon me, master witcher, but I had no way of not hearing-”

“She _could_ not, she was just shamelessly evasdropping-”

“ _As were you!_ Ehem. I couldn't not hear that our problems are one and the same.” The one called Prenira sits down on the corner of the table, for lack of any chairs. "Let's make best of the time and just put it all out there now." Jaskier laughed, delighted, and Geralt wanted so much to just lay down and take a nap he felt it like a physical ache on his joints.

“The plot thickens! Well then, go ahead. Start from the beginning, leave nothing out!”

\---

Stupid children, was all Geralt could think. Jaskier was keeping the conversation going, asking all the questions that came into his head in hopes some of them would be useful for the witcher and he was ever so grateful for it. For if he spoke now it would be to berate them, all eight of the idiots. Half of him wanted to get up and leave them to fix this on their own, but.

They couldn't be older than twenty years. Children indeed. The open wonder on their faces, the smooth skin and higher pitched voices was indication enough. And spite of that they had run to him, looking for help. Children, that some fifty years ago would have been as scared of him as they are of werewolves and wraiths, that would have never sit down right next to him, unafraid and hopeful.

He always had a soft spot for children, the ones not yet taught to fear him as the boogeyman of all their dreams. They were a bit older than the usual children he thought of, but to him? There was a very small amount of people indeed he didn't consider as youths.

Damn him and his soft heart but no, he could not leave them to fix this on their own. Jaskier knew it too, if his knowing smirks over his annoyed sighs were anything to go by.

“Well ladies and gentlemen. I think this is quite enough for today. Tomorrow we shall see about going to this creek, and seeing if your tales hold true. For now, although there is no more road dust upon us I fear she is still very much onto us yet. I bid you all goodnight. Geralt?” Jaskier said, yawning and getting up. The others yawned also, nodding.

“Yes.” Jaskier thought that could have been easily replaced by a “please”, in a very desperate tone. Geralt was halfway to the stairs before he even finished that thought.

“Do try to have some fun while you can, why don't you? I can only imagine the possibilities of such predicament!” Jaskier said, walking away. Their protests fell on his back and he didn't bother to try and hear them.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo  
> Thanks so much for the feedback guys!! Does mean a lot to me, especially bc it has been so long that i didn't write.  
> I'm quite partial to this chapter, actually, and if you think the boys are ooc please remember that i took only the show apperance.

The thing was, Geralt _hated_ fairies.

Well. I say hate.

He hated them as much as he could bring himself to hate any monster, which. Wasn't a great amount. A griffin was born a griffin and had no blame for the fact that it now lived in a world with vengeful humans. It needed to eat, and it had the instinct to procreate just like any other creature. Geralt couldn't bring him himself to hate a monster's nature. It couldn't think.

Faeries though.

They _could_ and they were _mean_. Many other post-conjunction monsters could think and with probably two exceptions, none of them were this much of a pain in the _Meletile's blessed ass._

He hates fairies. But he wasn't immune to the very human feeling of thrill in front of a challenge.

So really, he had his hands full right about now. It would be complicated and insanely dangerous and absolutely the type of contract that still made him nervous and tense. He had been on the path for so _long_ that exciting contracts were rare, and ones that actually made him feel a stab of _fear_ even more so. He relished in it, a sick kind of satisfaction at the reminder and the proof that his extra mutations did not stripe him down from his emotions. If anything, maybe the process gave some of them back.

But the problem.

The _problem_ was _Jaskier_ , the very fragile human he had to protect and that he would throw himself face-first into a puddle of aracha's venomous intestines if he didn't, that would not be left behind in any hunt no matter how boring or how difficult they were.

And for all that Geralt's fucked up instincts craved danger, taking Jaskier with him was a type of danger that churned his stomach and his head and he hated it. He knew -in a part of his head that he put things he _did not want to think about thanks very much_ \- that the bard was just as much of a danger slut as himself. He could stand being a hypocrite in exchange of the man's continued existence.

But not letting Jaskier tag along from the get go only -and exclusively- ended as him following Geralt -so sneaky that the witcher didn't notice him the first few times- and making an appearance in the worst possible moment and almost getting Geralt and himself killed.

So. It's not like he had a choice.

He would work. Jaskier would follow. And somehow they wouldn't die.

It had, actually, worked just fine for the past few years but Geralt was resisting this one. He had a feeling, like a hook tugging at his bellybutton very insistently, that this would not be like the other hunts. His animal instincts were always right, and the only times he tripped over them where when he didn't interpret them right.

He knew the right thing to do was to not take the bard with him. Maybe even send him two towns away for good measure.

Jaskier had his pack waiting for him next to Roach and Pegasus and a small pouch from the apothecary when the witcher went to the stables.

Geralt sighed, resigned to deal with whatever disgrace would befall them later. The sight of Jaskier dressed for travel always put a smile to his face, but his characteristic impractical silk finery punched the witcher on the chest with longing and fondness so strong he could barely breathe.

“Where is your jerkin?” He asked instead “You decided not to come?” Geralt was hopeful, almost wishing the bard had found some woman to shower with attention while he went off in the middle of the night. 

“Like that's ever gonna happen.” Jaskier snorted “Just that; they are faeries. They like pretty things and music, right? This might be one of my best contributions to a hunt yet.” He smiled. Geralt wished the sky would fall of their heads.

“Yes they do. They like to keep pretty things to themselves and steal music for their own song.” he gritted out. Jaskier gave him an unconcerned wave of his hand, his smile cocky.

“You will be with me, I have nothing to worry about.” Geralt wanted to both punch him and kiss him, the utter and complete _moron_.

“If they steal your voice, I'm leaving you to deal with it yourself.” It was an empty threat and Jaskier only smiled wider.

“Sure, Geralt. Tell yourself that while you weep for never hearing my voice again.”

The witcher strode forwards, took Roach’s reins and walked past the bard not saying a word and not looking at him. Knowing what he felt and expressing them weren't difficult things, _per se_. Rejection, the phantom of traveling alone again – now or in a few years when the bard's body couldn't keep up anymore- was suffocating and terrible in it's cruelty. The weight of knowing Jaskier deserved better -gods knows Geralt would never pick himself either- and that he was already stealing Jaskier's best years was heavy to drag from town to town, dizzying like a pair of dimeritium shackles.

Jaskier followed him with a spring in his step, laughing softly.

\---

“So, what's the plan?” Jaskier asked, sprawled on his bedroll. His eyes were hazy from the wind that kept blowing the fire's smoke into his eyes. Geralt gave the brush he was using on Roach a violent shake and watched as the dirt he had been scratching at fall away.

“We wait until the moon to appear. Then, hopefully, I can catch their trail.”

“Hopefully?” Jaskier moaned “Come now. Isn't there another way? College students managed it, there _must_ be another way than to sit around for another four hours.”

“Is this boring you? I told you to stay at the inn.”

“I do wish you would stop wasting breath bringing that up.” He huffed “I would follow you to the ends of the earth, dear. Admittedly, with some mild complaining involved.” Geralt froze mid motion to the waterskin near his bedroll. Jaskier said things like that all the time, so casually, tossing them around like they weren't terrifying things to say, like they weren't the most beautiful words he ever heard said to his person, words that weren't said without meaning.

Roach nibbled on a strand of his hair, snorting.

He pushed her away after a moment, shaking himself. Jaskier was watching him, eyes rimmed red.

“I only-” He swears he intended so say something embarrassing enough to match Jaskier's display but the noise that came from deep into the woods made him actually tremble. His head turned so fast his neck popped and Jaskier was up in an instant.

“What is it?” Geralt pointed at him when the bell-like laughter stopped ringing in his ears.

“Leave it to you to attract faeries in a summer's moon” He grumbled. “You did some research before coming, didn't you?”

“Well, a bit. I'm still not following, though.” Geralt glared. Jaskier glared right back and crossed his arms. The laughter was getting closer.

“Yes you are. They wouldn't be coming for us if you didn't.” He plucked two small vials from his belt, a purple and a grey one. He downed the two and threw his cloak over Roach. “But I'll scold you later. I don't want them near the horses.” He gestured to the right, towards the frankly offending cacophony and waited for Jaskier to huff out a disinterested breath, pick up his lute and they were off.

\---

Geralt kept a hand hovering at the back of Jaskier's purple doublet, aware that his blown pupils saw much more than Jaskier did. He kept following the ringing and the racket, jaw clenched. His body was strumming with energy now that the potion had worked the lap around his entire system and he wasn't sure anymore if his medallion was twitching or if he was shaking from the strain of walking slowly and acting human.

“What is the plan, anyway?” Jaskier prodded again, arms laughably spread in front of him to avoid falling onto his face. “We find them and then what? Ask them to politely remove the curse? Are you going to kill them? Are they small? How do you kill them if they are so small?” He was murmuring, which was a damn step better than it used to be but Geralt would have preferred no talking at all.

“About a halfling size. Green, though. Some are blue. Every once in a while there are pink ones.” He said. The problem with Jaskier's questions is that he didn't like to leave them unanswered. Hunting monsters was all he knew and Jaskier was ever so interested in every single detail of it that even if it was only for his ballads Geralt wanted to share that part of himself. He would share everything, even if it let him hollow. “And we are going to do exactly that.”

“ _What_.” Jaskier wheezed out. “Geralt are you forgetting just how hard you tried to impart on me how feral those creatures are? And you want to make _conversation_ with it?”

“They talk a lot.” He shrugged. “And they love to leave you feeling wrong footed. Just stay quiet.” Jaskier opened his mouth, forming indignant shapes until his feet slipped on the wet leaves and he didn't go flying only by the hand at the back of his collar pulling him up.

And then, the ringing stopped.

Geralt exhaled. Closed his eyes.

When he opened them again his entire sclera was black. A faint glow came from behind him; a soft green glow. Jaskier could see, even in the blanketing darkness, a grimace on Geralt's face. His heart started to pick up the pace and he smiled, fingers tightening on the neck of his lute. His face held an air of challenge Geralt both loved dearly and dreaded fiercely. Before he could try and silence the bard, try to contain the chaos that would surely follow, Jaskier was slipping from his hold on his clothes like he was made of water.

“A very good night to you, my ladies! Oh, you have _some_ friends, don't you? That's alright, the more the merrier!” Geralt took a second to turn around, too shocked to believe his own ears despite knowing he did kind of brought this upon himself. Jaskier strummed his lute, walking with a swagger that talked of little care in the world and strutted right into the middle of the semi circle made by thirty-something giggling faeries.

“What say you about some music? My mind is restless gazing at such beautiful faces, you must let me do it the justice it deserves.” There was another collective giggle, the vain creatures they were, and Geralt walked forward gluing himself to Jaskier side holding him from wandering and creating a bigger mess by the ties that dangled from his biceps.

The faeries eyed him with tilted heads. The witcher couldn't tell if it was mistrust or if they were laughing at his face.

“Please do. Has been _so long_ since we heard some good music, in _such good company_.” One of them said, voice high, childish. The phrase sounded more like a threat than a compliment. Jaskier's fingers turned white against the neck of his lute.

“I was under the impression you had guests not long past.” Geralt growled, unwilling to actually have to deal with going about retrieving a faery-stolen voice. The temperature seemed to rise with the sudden animosity of the creatures. Jaskier, for once, stayed quiet.

“Oh, and how rude they were! Stomping about, shouting such impolite things and butchering the elder speech!” The blue one closest to them said, smiling with all her very sharp teeth in show. Geralt bared his own back, and she slink back into her sisters.

“I do love the way elder tongue sounds when spoken right.” The first one lamented, looking at Jaskier with greedy eyes, as if she knew he could, in fact, speak as perfect elder as a human was capable of. The witcher moved his grip from the cords on his clothes to Jaskier arm proper now, pinching him with enough force to be read as the warning it was.

“What did they want?” Geralt demanded. The bard looked at him by the corners of his eyes, questioning. Geralt squeezed the arm in his hands. They knew the story of the students, but he was old enough to never fully trust the people when intelligent creatures were involved.

“Oh, what everyone wants!” Said a pink one, hanging above them on the trees. Geralt moved only his eyes up. “Our magic, what else? Isn't that why you are here, too?” The temperature raised again, and sweat was already dampening Jaskier's clothes.

“No.” Geralt limited himself. The green one, the one that spoke first with them got up and walked closer, seeming to want to make sure she had their attention.

“Of course we know why you are here, witcher.” There was a rising buzz somewhere in the canopies, a thrum that sounded like the pebbles of a road jumping around when cavalry passed through. “And _you_ want to know what _they_ wanted? Well, I can tell you.”

“Simple, really. Any of us could tell you.” Another said, stepping forward. Their voices sounded doubled, like there was an echo inside their own throats.

“Even I could tell you!” the pink one exclaimed.

“In fact, why don't we make this more entertaining?” the green said. 

“Not interested.” He cuts, but they weren't having it. Jaskier opened his mouth and Geralt clamped down his hand and Jaskier winced at the strength, unable to move.

“How about this: pick one of us. We will tell you the truth.” The blue winked, finding her way forwards again. “The truth you desire most.”

“Let the bard pick!” Sounded from somewhere amidst the vibrations and the swirling smell of ozone. Geralt felt that pinprick tugging as his instincts screamed at the situation that was spiraling.

“Yes, let him pick!” She agreed. “Pick, human! Pick and we shall give it to you!” Jaskier shot him a mildly panicked look, before looking at the faeries gathered, at Geralt again and seeing no hint of response, swallowing noisily. Geralt wishes he could unfreeze from his position, but the ozone was thick, and the buzz felt like it was right inside his head.

 _“Pick! Pick! Pick_!” The faeries chanted. The witcher couldn't move, senses overwhelmed, muscles locked in place by a vice grip. Jaskier tossed his head a few more times, their chanting rising. Then, he pointed his finger to the pink one, fluttering above them, their magic making it impossible to disobey. Even Geralt had a slight urge to point at the blue one he would have picked.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The magic smell fled from the air and all that remained was a sour taste in the back of the witcher's throat, anticipation hanging heavy above his head.

“Well then.” said the pink faery. “This is going to be so much fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as some small notes: fairies in the witcher do not behave like that. I cant remember how they do act, so i made up my own hc.  
> I tried my best to replicate a somewhat Geralt-esque melancholic internal monologue, but not too sure i succeded.  
> The potions he takes ate the simple ones, Cat for night vision and Tawny Owl for stamina. I always had trouble imagining the potions as big mf vials, bc they appear to be on the games but damn it. this is my fic and my vials are small.  
> Also worth saying... Jaskier's horse is actually called pegasus in cannon. He is that bitch.  
> For anyone interested in the lore of the conjuction, this is a resumed part, that is actually quite good: https://www.reddit.com/r/witcher/comments/4q0ca5/what_happened_during_the_conjunction_of_the/


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, my friends thank you for the support! I really can't remember actualy looking foward to writing a fic, and this is turning out to be so much fun! Really debating if i want this to be a long story or if i will just write a fuckton of other ones

Fun for whom, Jaskier wondered. What was supposed to be fun about his insides twisting like he was being turned inside-out like a handbag left to dry?

Pesky, nettlesome _little pieces of shit_ , that's what they were. Jaskier was oscillating between cursing the root of their very existence and planning that if he woke up with his hands intact he would write such a vexatious song that no one would ever mistake them for mischievous but benevolent woodland beings ever again, even if he had do enact the song to be understood. Half of him would be content with just wringing their little necks though.

The burning went on for what felt like an eternity, reaching and pulling at parts of him he couldn't name, for he didn't even know what they _were_. It burned so hot it felt cold so hot and so unwaveringly that he was surprised to find himself not into a bottomless void barren of any light, but instead trapped in a white expanse that pulsed red, bright and brighter by the heartbeat and it hurt to just _exist_.

Distantly, he wondered why he hadn't passed out. Where was Geralt, what was happening to them. The still present capacity for thought made him pretty sure he was dead, though. He had to be for he did feel, through the absurdly hot radiating pain, a weight somewhere near what once was his physical body. Pressed close; fallen. A hulking weight that didn't make him panic, and couldn't be anything, anyone, else.

Did witchers even have an after life? It would be nice to share on that too.

\---

Everything _ached_ like a fiend had trampled him four times over. Geralt was aware he had a body, was aware he wasn't dead _yet_ , but it hurted to even think. So he stayed on the ground, eyes closed and slowly trying to reach for the strands of any kind of control.

Around him the only sounds were the trees swaying in the wind, his own thunderous heartbeat. Little by little he regained sensation on his skin, too. It was warm and prickling, as it was when spending too much time plastered before the sun.

His body felt like an anchor, dragging him down into the ocean deep where light didn't shine and holding him there with heavy chains. It was strenuous to move, even to just open his eyes. It has been a long time since he felt so tired and so milled, the sensation bringing him back to the first year living under Vesimir's training. The memory gave him the last push, the anchor snapping from the boat and sinking. Geralt let himself be led, incapable of resisting and finding he didn't care as much as he antecipated he would. He always thought his death was going to be a much worse affair than just peacefully letting go.

\---

“Fuck. _Fuck me._ _T_ _hat's_ not _happening_.” Geralt regained consciousness suddenly enough that he instantly knew he was not, in fact, dead. A part of him sniffed at that, rolling up into a ball in the corner of his head, dejected. “This can't be happening, holiest of every _goddamn_ shit I _ever_ gave.” There was an unstable, gravely voice speaking as if trying to talk himself out of a panic attack. There was no pacing but he could hear rustling as if the person speaking was rolling around on the ground. The warmth from his earlier delirium was gone, and there were crickets nearby. Night still, then.

Slowly and with a great amount of effort, he opened his eyes.

The trees that loomed over him were thin and plush. The night sky was darker than he remembered it being and with fewer stars but the moon was as big and round as it always were. The labored breathing to his side told him of where Jaskier would be, for it couldn't be anyone else, and he hoped whatever happened to them wasn't impossible to fix.

Geralt took a gradual breath in, held it for five beats of his heart and released. He repeated until his brain stopped swimming around his skull, the familiarity of the motion calming his scattered thoughts. He tested his fingers first and while it felt more like pulling strings on a puppet than an actual person with agency, now he could move.

So _very_ haltingly the witcher pushed himself up to sitting, trying to keep his eyes fixed ahead of him so he didn't put more strain onto his frayed senses.

“Oh no.” And there had to be something horribly wrong with Jaskier voice, for it sounded like a strangled drunkard shrilling about his cheating wife on a rundown tavern. “Geralt? _Please_ tell me this isn't what it looks like.” Geralt moved by segments, turning his head and his eyes as one and letting himself adapt to every new picture.

Geralt was staring at him from the other side of a few fallen logs. He looked desperate and wild and utterly helpless.

“ _What the fuck_.” Geralt said, with feeling. Then, the night before came rushing back to hit him in the face with a silver horseshoe engraved with his name. “ _Fuck._ ”

“Yeah, that's what I was afraid of.” Jaskier-Geralt said, high pitched and thumping back down. Geralt-Jaskier kept on looking, reeling and unmoving. “What are we going to _do_ Geralt? Clearly going to the faeries is not the wisest choice.”

Geralt, the one apparently trapped inside _Jaskier's body_ , looked down on himself only to find the purple embroidered doublet the bard had used when they set out of town, complete with the blue socks and pristine leather shoes. He looked back at – well, _himself_ \- and gaped. His armor and his swords were where he always put them, strapped tight to his person. His hair had more leaves in it than he had before passing out, but from the racket he made Jaskier probably _had been_ rocking on the ground, wailing his bad luck to the skies. In _his_ skin.

“Fuck.” That seemed to be the only word he could get out. Jaskier laughed, his dry and resigned one, but it sounded decidedly _unpleasant_ on his own voice.

“That's one way to put it.” He wails. Everything was wrong and Geralt couldn't look at Jaskier even to appraise if he needed some medical help. The eyes that looked at him were yellow and they glowed and he _despised_ them. The pale, scarred face was showing too _much_ , the disheveled hair with twigs poking out making him look more animal than a somewhat human shaped thing. He turned away, gut rolling.

“We should get back to camp.” Geralt said taking in gulps of air by his mouth to avoid smelling himself. He did not wanted to confirm that the only detectable things were blood and steel and poison.

“Oh gods, _the horses_! Do you think they got to them?” That much infliction was wrong, coming from him. Jaskier didn’t know how to control the ever present growl and so the tone went up and down like a disoriented fly, breaking like a teenager and grating on his ears.

“Hm.” He grunted instead but Jaskier voice was also very different and his “Hs” didn’t stick to the back of his throat like they used to. The bard seemed to notice the discrepancy too, and stared at him with a tilted head. Geralt felt like prey, even knowing he was perfectly safe; Was this what everybody else saw looking at him, day after day? Predator, animal?

He got up on unsteady legs and wobbled back to the trail he left behind. Jaskier, in his new gargantuan form, stumbled behind him surprisingly silent.

\---

It was a testimony to how well adjusted both horses were not only to their caretakers but also to their stupid and half-brained ideas that they didn't do more than sniff at them for a longer time, when they appeared. Geralt kept his eyes cast down when he could, and started to pack. Jaskier was much more reticent than he was before, and the witcher couldn't really blame him. He would feel doomed and _fucking pissed off_ in Jaskier's position too.

Roach huffed non-stop, tossing her head up and down but Geralt knew her enough to know this was playful noise. If horses could be mocking, Roach was splitting her midsection laughing at his face.

“Look, I know this is far from the prime condition to be in, but really, ignoring me isn't going to make this any easier on either of us.” Jaskier murmured when Geralt's side of the camp was made up and strapped to Roach's saddlebags. The witcher didn't turn to him and kept on fiddling with the girth straps under the saddle skirt as if it needed any more adjusting.

The hand that landed on his shoulder was big, warm and terrifyingly heavy. Geralt flinched away before he could stop himself and Jaskier retreated as if burned.

“Oh dear, did I hurt you? Geralt did I break something? Oh _gods_ spit on my fucking face a bit more why don’t you, you cruel _motherless bastards_ -” Jaskier hovered, hands held up and cursing at the sky. Geralt eyed the arms bracketing what once was his own face and wondered if they always looked this intimidating.

“No.” He pushed out when the bard didn't seem to quiet down. “You startled me. Just.” And it was a lot harder to keep a hold of his feelings and his words wearing the bard's skin. Apparently his mutations _did_ mute them out, besides giving him an off switch. “You need to be aware now, of what this body can do.” He continued, testily. Jaskier gave him a half smile.

“I'm well aware of your strength.” The witcher felt a stab of anger and desperation rising up on the base of his spine and spreading like the heat of an infection.

“Are you?” His whisper was vicious, and Jaskier looked at him with surprise in his narrowed eyes. “Do you understand, _bard_? I could rip a human to pieces if I just got careless enough to forget they _break_. I could hold on to their arms and _pull_ and they would _tear_ , easy as fabric. I could forget that I'm not supposed bring this highwayman dead for the bounty, and punch him with too much strength and split his skull open and have a _gander at this brains.”_ His words were coming quick, sharp, his breathing picking up. Jaskier's pursed lips told him how much he didn't like to hear this, but he needed to make him understand the monster he was now inhabiting.

“I could forget to pull back the signs and forget that axii needs to be removed and have a thrall walking around. I could-”

“ _Shut up_.” And it was so sudden and so derisive the Geralt closed his mouth with an audible click. “I am not going to sit here and hear your self-loathing monologue again, Geralt.” He came closer, hands held placatingly in front of him. “Besides, I know myself enough to know this shit situation. Can you breathe?” The witcher glared but Jaskier was having none of it, “I can recognize my own panic attack you _lumbering idiot_ , take a cursed deep breath and _stop talking_.”

Geralt did, even if it was just so he wouldn't have to listen to his voice scraping against his ears again. Jaskier was clearly counting, so Geralt went back to his own breathing exercises. The witcher was still angry to admit it did make him feel better.

“There.” The bard said, softer. He looked to the side, licking his lips. Geralt noticed how pale that, too, was; how it made him look like death walking.

“I'm sorry.” He said instead, an unpleasant feeling crawling up his windpipe. He tried to swallow around it but it didn't go away.

“Whatever for?” Jaskier said, seemingly truly confused. Geralt waved at hand at his old body, despairing.

“This. Everything.” His voice felt thick and abruptly he noticed that was because he wanted to _cry_.

“No, stop that. I hate to see myself crying Geralt.” The bard whispered urgently “The only one at fault here are the faeries. Well perhaps the students more accurately, _but_! This isn't your fault.”

“But I-”

“No.” And it was both firm and gentle and he never heard his voice sound like that. He didn't know it could even bend to it. “We will be fine, yes? There are much worse people to be swapped into.” Pegasus was the one to snort now, hooves scraping the ground. Jaskier sighed.

“Maybe we should go back to the inn and put them to par.” he suggested. Geralt chewed on the inside of his cheek.

“Yes. Send them somewhere they can't cause us anymore trouble.” The bard snickered.

“And go looking for more trouble ourselves.”


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are so sweet aaaaaaaaaa thank you for the support!!! Im actually ahead on this one? There are some chapters ready now, i just hope i dont start hating them if i look at it again  
> Warning to dialogue heavy ahead, as are the others chapters!!

“We are dead. We are so fucked. I'm never getting my body back, holy blessed _fuck_.” Vevri moaned, raking his hands into his long hair and pacing around the tavern like he was catching fire from the inside. The twins looked mildly green, but stayed seated.

“Don't look at it this way!” Fayin chirped with forced cheer “He has even more motivation to find a cure!” Jaskier's glare was more effective than ever, being delivered by Geralt's yellow slitted eyes, and she shrank back into herself.

“Do you even understand what your dishonesty caused?” Geralt asked, Jaskier's voice remaining soft despite his anger. 

“We weren't dishonest! We told you all we could remember!” Zina was incensed, leaning over the table. Jaskier's snort had a very different effect now that it echoed across the tavern like a rock slide.

“But you weren't. You kept the true intent from us. If he had gone in knowing that, then this would not have happened!”

“Maybe.” Geralt spat, still sitting on his hands on the bench. “Maybe not. It sure as hell would have made it easier though.”

Jaskier crossed his arms and sneered. Two very big, pointed teeth appeared for a second and the table collectively recoiled. Geralt hadn't felt this angry in such a long time that he almost, almost welcomed the feeling. The emotion was demanding all his attention, vibrant colors where before there was just different shades of muted greens and blues. 

“Luckily for you, of course we will find a cure. Not that we wouldn't _before_.” Jaskier accused. “But now the price is higher with the weight of your most _sincere_ apologies. Go wait for us in Oxenfurt. When we find it, we will come to you and you boys better have a small fortune ready.” Geralt looked at him, surprised. Vyrle sighed, getting up and trying to make himself look as small as his bulging arms would allow.

“Only fair. I am, for what's worth, very sorry about this. One of us will await for you on the Alchemy inn everyday, from dusk till dawn.” Both Zina and Fayin opened their mouths to protest but his brother shucked them on the head.

“You four pulled us in, and now we are getting us out. You lost your talking privileges.” Zina had the decency to look contrite, but Fayin looked downright murderous. Geralt couldn't believe he let himself feel somewhat fond of her. 

“Agreed. Until then try to not swallow any more than you can fit into your mouths.” Jaskier said as a dismissal, going straight to the bar. Geralt wanted to scream when he saw himself faced with the full table's attention on him. He worked his mouth for a while until deciding to he just didn't care enough and went off to the bar too.

\--- 

“It ain't much, master witcher, but I am ever so grateful for the peace and quiet.” The inkeep was almost grovelling in relief of having his nieces taken out of his hands. They were Oxenfurt bound, along with the students, and probably would cost him a lot more for the travel but the tension was gone from his eyes. He handled them two very full burlap sacks that gave off a strong smell of spice that talked about road ready food.

“Thanks.” Despite being used to people's sympathy, Jaskier seemed as bewildered by the gesture as the witcher was. Geralt couldn't even move his mouth to thank the man proper. “Hope that works out for you.” The inkeep nodded and bowed low again, escorting them past the town's gates.

“Stop by anytime you pass through; there will always be a place ready for you to rest.” Geralt nodded then, gripping Roach's reins with calluses that weren't his own. Jaskier bade him farewell and both left the man behind, walking side by side on the road between their horses.

The sun was past it's peak now, and the weather was warm but not stifling anymore. They walked until Carreras was but a red point over the hills and only then Jaskier broke the silence. 

“You know, I don't even know if we have a plan. I just really needed to get out of that town. Funny, because I know for a fact I _never_ turn down friendly inkeeps and it's not like we even have a next step, is it?” 

“Say what you mean.” Geralt sighed. Sleeping on a bed rather than the ground for another night seemed like a very good idea, even if not every ground was hard and unforgiving, but he could admit to not thinking much about his actions right now.

“Well. I know I wouldn't usually be the one chasing us out of town. Especially if we didn't had a destination or time constraint and had the godsend of free lodging.” He stopped walking and halted Geralt with a hand hovering in front of him. The witcher stopped and turned his eyes onto Jaskier studded shoulder.

“Meaning?” 

“Don't play coy. I wouldn't do that. _You_ would, though.” The silence they fell into was very telling. Geralt wanted to tell it to go fuck itself on a cactus.

“I'm angry.” He grunted instead. “All the time, I'm angry and it feels like I can't control a thing that comes out of my mouth.” Jaskier blinked like an owl in response. “I feel anxious and I hate the fucking silence that keeps _mocking_ me-”

“Right, no, hold on.” He pushed both of them to the side of the road, closer to the trees than to the matted fence. “Geralt, listen to me. I am a restless person, it's true but I'm not really... a violent-” At the look thrown his way Jaskier had the good manners to look ashamed. It was an unsettling expression to see on himself. “Well alright, I'm not _constantly_ violent. What I think- and this is purely a guess mind you, but an educated one if I do say so myself- Is that this really isn't just our bodies switching.”

“ _You think_?”

“I don't see you offering me any new information, smartass. We don't run a risk of, oh I don't know, turning into each other? An ungodly mixture of us that turns into a monster out of madness?”

“Of course not” He scoffed. “Never been a curse like that. With faeries is almost always more about irritating word games that need to be circulated carefully than any seriously damaging curse.”

“ _Almost_?”

“I'm relatively secure that this curse isn't lethal.” Geralt chanced a longer glance to Jaskier. His face was twisted up into a very nauseated contortion.

“Well, I suppose that's the best we are going to get.” His feet shuffled on the dirt. “What now? Should we look for a magical library? A singing flower that only blooms under a red moon?” Geralt shook his head, finally feeling himself settle a bit.

“We ride into the next town over, get really, _really_ sloshed and have a very deep think about the _shithole_ we are in.”

“My friend that might be one of the worst ideas you ever had.” Jaskier knew his reactions to alcohol. Geralt did not. Maybe they shouldn't ingest any drugs while switched. Then again, what did it matter anymore? They were already closer than close and now. Well. What's one more embarrassment to the list? “It sounds _brilliant_.” 

\---

Following the road north they entered the gates of Ellander by midday. 

They could have stopped for the night but both were still jittery and restless and sleep was obviously not going to come easy. In an unspoken agreement they mounted the horses and kept on going at a leisure pace, both still silent trying to digest the last day by wrestling it into submission with sheer stubbornness. It wasn't a successful fight.

As soon as approaching the gates it became clear it wouldn't be possible to ride inside, so they dismounted, Geralt pushed the stirrup irons up the leathers and in they went. It wasn't long before they heard the first inn of the town, but instead of going towards the noise, Geralt took a sharp left turn and kept walking. Jaskier scrambled after, feet skidding on the damp cobblestones.

“Weren't we supposed to be going in the _direction_ of revelry, Geralt? Have you changed your mind?” 

“No. I forgot the next one over was Ellander.”

“So? Don't tell me you were run out of this city too.” Geralt huffed, a crooked smile appearing on his face that was too fond for a story that nothing to be fond about. Jaskier exchanged a look with Pegasus as if to confirm he wasn't the only one witnessing Geralt's slow decent into madness.

“I was. But not for long. I have sanctuary here.” The bards eyebrows promptly shot up.

“Sanctuary? What did you _do_?” His smile was definitely bigger now. Some part of Jaskier wanted fiercely to smile in response but he felt himself holding back, not really knowing why.

“Not a thing.”

“Must I beg? You know I'm not above that.” Geralt's tentative happiness was gone form his face in a second. The mere thought of hearing himself beg and grovel was enough to send him into another brooding fit induced by disgust. Jaskier saw the witcher closing off again and felt only a little stab of annoyance, not the usual all encompassing frustration he was so used to. It was like trying to read in half candlelight; you knew the words were there, you could see their outline and if you squinted enough you could even make them out, but never be completely certain of what it said.

Jaskier resigned himself on following behind in silence, grateful that at least his incessant ache for filling the pauses was quenched and quite buried away too.

They walked to the east side of the town and did not stop at the gates. Jaskier kept on following hoping his insistence would land him an explanation sometime soon. Geralt stayed quiet, Roach making little content noises when the road started to hide from the sun by the trees flanking either side of it. They weren't thick, but they were fragrant and let just enough light pass through for the road to take on a dream-like haze. The path was made up of simple beige earth, but it was framed by irregular rocks on both sides making a clear cut separation between dirt and grass. 

This road was long and straight and at the end of it Jaskier could see a white building with a plush garden in front. In the middle, framed perfectly by the trees at the end of the path, was a fountain with a statue on it. The bard stared at it, trying to guess at who it might be when his eyes did a very uncomfortable and weird contortion that felt like breaking water's surface tension and suddenly he could _see_.

“ _Holy s-_ ” The world looked as it might have if he spent his entire life only looking out a murky window and abruptly someone shattered it. The vibrancy of all the colors and smells and- he could even hear the conversation two women in grey dresses were having, _near the fountain at least forty meters away._

“What now?” Geralt turned around and one look at his dilated pupils and glowing eyes told him Jaskier had managed to push his higher senses into activating. His face was made up in awe and bliss and a giggle - _giggle_!- left him, his wonder painted on a witcher's battered face as clearly as a child's would. 

“Geralt is this how you usually-”

“Not always.” Despite the expression on his face making him uncomfortable, Geralt found himself unable to cut this amazement short or to look away.

“I can see that statue as if I'm right in front of it. There are wolves fighting” He pointed to his right. Geralt's own weak human ears couldn't listen to more than the rustling of the wind. “And I can still smell the horses on the city gates. I can-” He cut himself off, turning his eyes onto the witcher with reverence. “I can hear your _heartbeat_. I can even smell my perfume- it's been weeks since I used the last drop of it.” His nose scrunched up and he recoiled as if struck. “Ugh I need a bath. Do I always smell so foul? _How_ did I not notice this before?”

“You never smell foul-” Geralt froze in his mid-turn, his mouth twitching as if it had an actual mind of it's own. “I mean, with these senses up everything is more potent. But even without them I could smell the perfume.” And then he turned back forwards, feeling a sharp shiver on the corners of his jaw and his first instinct was to cover his face with his hands. Jaskier laughed and it rolled out of him sounding full and welcoming.

“I can hear it running away!” The bastard was loving it. “This is amazing! I feel ready to wrestle with gods!” He punched the air in front of him and Geralt could feel the air moving near his face with the force of it. 

“No.” He tried his best to turn around and look at the other in the eye to impart how important this part was but he could feel the heat on his cheeks as an open wound. “No, Jaskier, you need to shut it off.”

“What? What do you mean, _shut it off?”_

“What do you mean, _what do I mean?_ Do you think I walk around looking drugged and high as a fucking kite on sensory overload?” The bard seemed genuinely astonished for a moment until a frown settled over his face. Geralt felt himself relax, finally seeing something he was familiar with. 

“So you don't feel all of this all the time?” 

“I feel _some_ of it all the time. This state only heightens it but it's also much more difficult to pay attention. It doesn't lend well to prolonged use.” He thrust his hand forwards, burying the long fingers under the armor's collar and the sensation that washed over him was jarring and very difficult to interpret. For a moment he stayed still, eyes locked with Jaskier until he felt the blush surge up with renewed vigor and he took the hand back just as quickly.

“What. What was...”

“The pulse.” 

“Huh?”

“The pulse.” Geralt's voice wasn't more than a murmur but every single atom of this body convulsed and screamed for him to turn away and bury his head on the ground. He swallowed and pushed forwards, barely able to form words “Witcher's hearts beat four times slower than a human's and can go lower still. It's too quick now, you need to shut it off and calm down.” 

“I don't even know how I turned it _on_!” Geralt let out a forceful breath and rested his forehead on Roach's neck for strength. 

“Breathe in, hold for five beats, let out. Move every finger on your hands, one at a time, then breathe in again.” 

“I'm not having a panic attack.” Jaskier said, level.

“No, but you can't reach the switch directly. Routine centers the senses.”

Jaskier said nothing more, and so Geralt took that to mean he listened for once. Meanwhile he did the same, willing the heat on his face to go away and refusing to move before that. 

“I think it worked. I can't see the statue anymore.” Jaskier's voice was a lot more subdued now. “But I can still heart your heart. And smell the perfume.”

“I always can.” He admitted in a small voice but froze nonetheless. There was a pause of silence as Geralt blushed again and Jaskier stayed tellingly quiet. 

“Just. Try not to strain them and you should be fine. Come on.” He barked out, no bite and voice weak and started forward again, pace almost up to a jog. Jaskier huffed and followed a ways behind, trying to gauge how far away before Geralt's body signals escaped him. 

The answer was, not at all. Everything else fade away, but the perfume and the quick pulsing of his own heart never left his awareness. 

“Huh.” He repeated. This wasn't something of his, his own nose not being the same since he smashed his face on his father's office door when he was six.

Geralt was _always_ aware, apparently.


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think i might be getting repetitive with the themes of the chapters. Or maybe too dialogue heavy. So i tried rewriting the ones i had ready but then i hated them more. So, this is what we serving today.  
> Also, i'm an idiot and i forgot to tag it, but i hc Jaskier and Geralt with some specific mental disorders (am i projecting? hell yes.) I'm not sure i want to get into gertalt's in this story, but in case i haven't been clear Jaskier has ADHD. To each their own but, i just wanted to say bc some people prefer that to not appear so....  
> Also, for those who haven't read the books Nenneke is the mother figure to Geralt, live Vesimir is the father figure. It's never really explained the hows and whys, i think, but their interactions always warm my heart.  
> Tried my hand at a Jaskier's Pov this time, let's see how that works,  
> Anyway, looking fowards to hearing your thoughts!

They reached the building and were promptly waved over by a small woman in a blue dress and a grey head scarf. Jaskier hesitated, but Geralt went forward, steps quickening and Roach following close.

“Nenneke.” The woman looked decidedly irked by the sight of Geralt's loud clothes but her face softened when she looked at Jaskier.

“Geralt. Another brooding visit or are you injured? Who's this?” A beat where both men paused and shot each other _a look_. Jaskier looked mildly panicked and Geralt's frown carried a distinct broodiness to it that had no place in the bard's face.

“Both. This one is a companion of mine.” The woman did not look impressed. “No, listen. _I_ am Geralt. And _he_ is Jaskier” pointing to his own body behind him. “And we got... _Switched_? He has my body, in any case.” To her credit her slack mouth lasted less than a minute, and a look of fond irritation blanketed her face.

“It's never the easy thing with you, is it? Get in, our usual spot. I'll join you in a moment.” And then she left by the way they came in.

“That...Went better than I expected.” Jaskier commented, still stuck on his spot. Geralt gave him a half smile.

“Nenneke is too used to " _my terrifyingly big bullshit_ ”.” He quoted. He seemed more at ease as he looped Roach's reins on a post near the stairs, motioning for Jaskier to do the same, but there was a frown on his face and a heavy smell surrounding him; A smell that Jaskier couldn't remember if it had been there before, but itched on his nose and made him want to sneeze. There was just too much to keep track of, and too much information he didn't know how to translate.

“Who... Who is she, then?” Geralt gestured to the statue on the middle of the garden, mouth pressed thin.

“Take a guess.”

“She cold just be living here and not be-” Geralt shot him a very unimpressed look. “Alright, _alright_. Who is she to _you_ , is what I meant.”

Geralt then made a sound as if Jaskier had punched him in the gut, cut off in the middle as he seemed to remember he had to stifle it. He looked away and didn't answer. This time, Jaskier noticed the change in his smell to something bittersweet and that stuck to the back of his tongue like old honey. It didn't felt right to press about the topic anymore.

\---

“Well then. And where did you find this... Him?” Nenneke clearly did not like Jaskier's loud _everything_. A part of him wanted to feel offended but another, a far bigger one, agreed he could have been cleaner if nothing else.

“Jaskier's the bard that has been singing about me for the past ten years.” Geralt said and this time he couldn't hide the blush of delight that always wanted to burst forth when he remembered it. Ten years, more on than off, parting for winter _if_ that long. Nenneke lifted an eyebrow, eyes shifting between Geralt and Jaskier, who was tapping his fingers on the window sill and murmuring to himself, no doubt composing. Once in a while he offered up tidbits Geralt forgot or just to make it seem like a more songwhorty fight with the faeries than the actual knockout it was.

“Of course, I should have realized sooner. But I expected that bard to be more... flamboyant, perhaps.” Geralt pointedly gestured to the purple doublet he still hadn't had the chance to change out of. “Yes, I see your point. He looks remarkably well suited to travel, is what I mean.”

“ _Thank you_! Running around after Geralt is a great exercise.”

“I don't doubt that.” She very much seemed like she was holding in a smile.

“Shut up.” Geralt cut in, voice aiming for miffed but falling short and stumbling into slightly amused instead.

“It is a good thing you didn't come looking for a cure, Geralt. There is nothing I can do.” She said, frowning. His face didn't change and he even offered a little nod of the head to her. “You don't seem much concerned by this.”

“I have an idea. But if it doesn't work, I don't have a back up.”

“Oh, now you have an idea, do you? _How_ I am just hearing about this?” Jaskier left his place at the window and came closer to tower over Geralt's chair, hands on his hips. “Do I need to remind you I am _very_ much involved?”

“Did you forget the plan _was_ for us to talk when we next stopped?”

“After getting _shitfaced_. Very mature, witcher.” Nenneke was leaning back on her chair, not bothering to hide her amusement any longer. Geralt didn't look vexed but did give off a very distinct brand of unease to not even meet his eyes. The scent enveloping him was the same honey coated _something_ , with an undertone of spice and cider that made Jaskier shiver. He couldn't pinpoint what these changing smells meant, but it was interesting to feel this body respond nonetheless because _it_ clearly knew what to make of the knowledge.

“Getting shitfaced _might_ be part of the plan.” Geralt mumbled. “I just wanted to stop by before we go back into _that_ problem and chasing for a solution that might take us far away from here and-” He snapped his mouth shut and covered his reddening face with his hands again. There was a prodding from far away on Jaskier's head that wanted to wrap him up into a bundle and sit near the roaring fire forever.

“Oh, look at that. Geralt being open about something other than his abusive relationship with life, what a novel.” Nenneke still sounded amused, but Jaskier knew there was fondness in there too.

“How do you _handle_ this, Jaskier?” He asked through clenched teeth. “How do I turn all of this off? This is absolute torture, my mouth is _not my own_.” And he paused again. His eyes went huge and shiny and the look he and Jaskier exchanged told of how the familiar tone of the words weren't lost on either of them.

“Handle is far too strong of a word.” Jaskier murmured, wanting to soften the revelation for Geralt; give the witcher an out for him to breathe and regroup, but his usual internal chatter was absent and his words came up jumbled; lines in a poem he didn't write and didn't knew the language of. “I don't have an off switch, nor any methods to do what you can do, sorry.”

“How do you _live_ then?” Jaskier almost felt pity at Geralt's desperation. The days where he felt as restless in his own skin were few and far between now, and his method to dealing with it never followed a pattern.

“Music always helped me, but I'm not so sure its going to do _you_ any good.” He offered, voice low. Speaking louder hurt his own ears, so Jaskier forced it to go softer, rolling his tongue and relaxing his mouth. When he spoke again he felt the cadence was much closer to what he was used to hearing form Geralt but it sounded off and foreign. “We could try the lute still, maybe trust on muscle memory and hope for the best?”

Geralt blinked at him as if he was seeing a nightwraith rise from the floor.

“What are you doing.”

“Do you know how _loud_ you speak? It's giving me a headache.” His Ts were punched out between his teeth and his Ss were long and soft, dragging before the next syllable gentle as an evening's breeze. Geralt kept the dead look on his face but Nenneke had a pleasantly surprised expression on hers.

“Go back to screaming I don't have to hear this.”

“What's that supposed to even _mean_?” Jaskier pressed closer and Geralt flattened himself to the back of his chair.

“His accent” Nenneke said, simply. Her eyes looked sad. “It's been so long since I heard it I forgot you had one.” Jaskier's eyes came quite close to jumping off his face.

“You never showed you had one! I never heard Rivia on your voice.” His Rs dragged on as if he couldn't help the purr they wanted to curl into. Geralt seemed beyond desperate to make him stop talking.

“Vesimir said it gives credibility to have a complete name.” The words clawed out even though he looked as if every ounce of his willpower was trying to force them back.

“Well, where _are_ you from?”

“Jaskier if you don't stop talking I will fucking _bite your neck off_.” The silence that followed was dense and charged as the bard digested the shocking electricity that ran over his body at the threat. The shiver down his spine was as violent as the words, and Geralt seemed absurdly appalled at having said it. Jaskier felt like an unpleasant watered down ale, spiced with too much vinegar, had taken permanent residence inside his gums at hearing himself from the outside when getting to this state.

“I won't pry.” Eventualy he murmured, the words seeming loud and stifling in the deathly silence that followed. “I won't pry, promise.”

Nenneke sighed, and somehow that was one of the most tired sounds Jaskier ever heard.

\---

Later, well into the night, Geralt stopped again. Jaskier let him lead the way, unwilling to press the frayed nerves he knew were pushing far into Geralt's every pore, knowing that if he, Jaskier, got to the point of lashing out then he needed quiet, needed space and could only tolerate Geralt nearby because he was Geralt, his witcher, the sole constant in his life for over ten years.

They stopped near a windmill, halfway to the margin of the Pontar but not yet crossing the Ismena river. They didn't stop to make camp, though. Geralt steered them away from the road a few hours back, and now he jumped off Roach and kept walking like a man on a mission. Jaskier sighed, tired but resigned and decided to follow a bit behind.

The witcher walked and walked until they came upon a brook with crystal clear water. There wasn't any full moon to illuminate the way, but Jaskier didn't need it anymore. Geralt went to the edge of the small stream stumbling, into the water, kneeling and then doing his best to dunk his entire head in.

Jaskier really wanted to pull him out and leave him to dry on a tree like a disgruntled cat; Instead, he went ahead and sat on a rock on the edge of the pool, dipping his legs up to the knees. A while passed, with only the sounds of Geralt's air bubbles keeping him company, and just when he started to question whether or not he should actually go in and check the other moron hadn't drowned himself, Geralt comes back up panting. Before Jaskier can say anything the witcher starts pulling at his closed doublet, at the chemise underneath and throws it all to the side, stripping down to his breeches as if the clothes burned his skin.

“Is that necessary?” The bard says forcing his voice to keep flat. “I liked that one.”

“Itches. Everything itches.” Geralt grumbled, but in Jaskier's voice it came out melodic, almost song-like. “ _Itches._ Burns, feels like I need to tear my skin out and then _maybe_ I'll have some reprieve.”

“Water won't really help.” The bard knew the feeling all too well. “Can _I_ help you?” It felt important to ask, important to give Geralt a semblance of control over his actions. The look the witcher sent him was laced with pure and naked agony.

“What will you do if I say yes?”

“Don't you trust me?” And it was intended as a mere joke, something to lift the heaviness surrounding them. It fell flat, and Geralt's face contorted uglily in pain before averting his eyes.

“No. Yes. Yes. I-” He shuddered, arms coming up to hug himself. “I don't know if what I'm feeling is mine.” His voice was very, very small. Jaskier lifted a hand to his chest, searching for the hand that was squeezing his heart in an iron fist.

“What do you mean?”

“There are things, floating around. Memories, songs, information that I never obtained. Even speaking, I can't much control the what or the how comes out of my mouth. My heart feels like it's going to leap out of me and I can't look at you and-”

“Stop.” Jaskier never responded too well to commands himself but clear-cut, simple directions seemed to be the best way to get trough the witcher. “ _Stop_. Come here.” Geralt went, still shaking.

“I need you to _listen_ to me now, Geralt. I might not be trained as you were, and I might not have your strength or skills. But I had twenty-eight years to get used to this and work around it. With me?” Geralt nodded, once. “There isn't a cure, not one I could find anyway. You can manage, when you get used to what expect, but it's never easy.”

“I don't _want_ _this_.” And it was novel, to watch as Geralt's shaking only increased and Jaskier must have pushed on his senses again for he could see as clearly as daylight the repulsion in Geralt's face. “I don't want to go around looking at my own body, seeing every flaw and knowing I'm making you wear the hide of an _executioner and a liar_ while I get to walk around human and _free_ -” Jaskier clapped a hand over his mouth, unable to speak what was choking him up so much. Geralt tried to wriggle free of his touch, skin raising with goosebumps, but Jaskier stilled him with a nasty side look.

“Are you telling me.” The bard started after a long stretch, feeling an odd echo of anger rising it's head from afar. “ _Are you seriously telling me_ that you find yourself so repulsive you can't _look_ at me?” Geralt let out a choked up whine and closed his eyes, nodding almost imperceptibly. A sharp, bitter smell rose up and slammed itself on Jaskier's keen nose like a brass covered punch. From somewhere on his head the words for it popped up without prompting; Fear, anger. And then, the same soundless voice went on to add: _Loathing_.

The feeling of wanting to cry was in a way very familiar and very unfamiliar in this mutated body; It reared up in a burning sensation along his throat and his eyes felt like pepper was sprinkled inside them.

“No, no. No, _Geralt._ ” Jaskier grittled out, the growl making his words jumble togheter. “ You are _not_ doing this to yourself anymore. I'm _done_.” The body in his hands quivered, but he didn't pull away.

“I'm just saying the-”

“So help me, if you say “the truth” I will not be responsible for my actions.” Geralt fell silent again, eyes never leaving the ground. “This is going to be difficult enough on you without this pastiche. You have to be gentler to yourself, or you will never pull it together. Not in this body.”

Geralt kept silent.

Jaskier put his hands slowly on the witcher's shoulders.

“Do you hear me?” A nod. “ _Words_ , Geralt. I know you are full of them now, speak.”

“Yes, I hear you.” His eyes came up and Jaskier saw him try to meet his eyes, but he turned away just as hastily. “But I can't. _I can't._ Jaskier, I'm-” And then he was crying.

The sight was one that made Jaskier want to recoil, want to run far, far away and not once look back, for it had been years upon years since he last saw himself when breaking down like this. So many years he couldn’t even feel the pain of his broken bones and his broken heart, even if he concentrated. He never wanted to see himself so helpless again.

Geralt sobbed, but it was silent. The tears fell, but no sounds escaped him. He shook and convulsed but even his breathing was more or less under control. The silence, more than anything else, tore Jaskier away from his own memories, the sight severing something inside his head and the bard was getting better at prodding along the seams and feeling when some urge wasn't his own. It felt hesitant and unsure, fearful even, but it was just as fierce and willing. It would feel like a horrible idea in the morning, probably, but for the moment Jaskier only pulled his own body in and held tight.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, GUYS  
> THANK YOU so much for all the support it made my craving for validation very satisfied, ill admit. Thanks a lot!!  
> Now, im not too sure about the length of this fic; i suppose im gonna wait for your opinions on this one and go from there? Hmmm

Geralt cried for the remainder of the night. 

Jaksier held him trough it, only moving to the side on a larger rock to get out of the water.

The woods were silent nearby as if them, too, were still in respect to Geralt's violent anguish and guilt. It was clear to the bard how this new body didn't feel as his old one did; the emotions coming from far away, hazy as if covered by a veil of shimmery, translucent, fabric; but even now he could find probing along the seams on this head, the split from what he knew he would be feeling and what this body was allowing him.

His chest squeezed and spasmed and every silent tear of Geralt's only made it worse, his silent sobs and muted pain only making Jaskier wish he could be raving and screaming in his place; do anything to give Geralt a backdrop to his own shattering so he wouldn't feel terrified to try to pull back, only to find he didn't had the strength to do it alone. He ached for the man he held with the most gentle grasps he could manage, when all he wanted was to press him close and then _closer_ , smash and weave them together so thoroughly that not mage nor god could tell them apart anymore, tuck him in the folds of his cloak and never let _anything_ reach him so much he would feel so inadequate, so deficient and so very unwanted again.

Some part of him wanted to cry too, wanted to give way to the savage twist of his heart rattling inside his ribcage, but even that small mercy was taken from him. His eyes _burned_ scorching bright, and stayed as dry as a desert. 

And then the anger started to appear on the horizon, ugly and scarred and so very done with the cruel world it had to endure. Jaskier felt flayed alive from the feverish, unfiltered ire from realizing he couldn't even have this; this small mercy of the human body designed to not let the soft and fragile minds crumple under the torment of feeling so much pain. How long has it been since Geralt couldn't even cry to soothe himself? How long, since his own head was a trap designed to keep him as the most impeccable one man army, that felt no sorrow or shame or joy, wanted for no things and longed for no one? 

Jaskier felt himself shook, down his arms and deep from within his gut; a shiver that held frustration and rage and... Nothing.

As a tornado, all of what Jaskier was finally feeling simmering just beyond his reach was snapped and taken and the shroud was firmly back in place, resembling more of a fortress wall than a flimsy veil. Jaskier watched as it was rushed elsewhere and he was left sitting there feeling so, _so cold_. 

Geralt's cries went down in frequency slowly, gradually. He took a deep shuddering breath, and went still. Jaskier pulled back to look at his own wrecked face, to hear the even heartbeat. The sun started to make an appearance just to the right of his vision, lifting the heavy mask of the night. 

The day approached but still the forest was silent.

\--- 

At some point during the slumbering early hours of the morning, Jaskier had fell asleep too. The sun rose to it's peak and only then both of them woke, as if hearing an invisible bell. Geralt was the first one to rise, disentangling himself from his own body with not even as a slight reddening of his face, _thank you_ , and standing up not feeling much more of anything. The sun warmed his exposed skin and the air was fresh. Roach's snort came timed as if to signify a good morning. 

He could remember vividly the last night; but more so what he felt than what happened. His head pounded, and he still felt like he was shivering, but his mind was blessedly silent.

“Geralt I'm _blind_!” Jaskier's screech was received as the starting point of his day, almost. After it, he realized he could hear the trees creaking, the horses munching near the riverbed, the groans of the windmill and far away children's yells. Turning his head back to the bard, Geralt almost had the urge to laugh.

“Geralt, are you there? Am I dreaming?” Jaskier was still plastered to the rock, both hands pawing at his face, his eyes squeezed shut with all his might. Strangely enough, Geralt didn't find his usual disgust at looking at himself. He felt something, sure, but not the all encompassing loathing, the queasy feeling low on his belly he was so used to.

“I am.” He went closer, picking up the discarded cloak from the ground and tossing it above both their heads, holding the ends firmly against the rock. “Open up.” The bard did, and while he could keep them open for a few seconds he soon closed them again, letting out a pained grunt.

“What the fuck happened?” 

“Your pupils are still on high drive from the night. You have to shut the senses off, again, and close them up.” Geralt's voice had a tint of amusement to it, sounding light and pleasant. It rang just like Jaskier's usually did, and something in his chest wriggled contentedly at it. 

“I can do _one_ of those things.” This time, it took a lot less effort for his eyes stop glowing, “But close them up? Close _what_ up?” He pressed his eyes shut again, with a face of great concentration. This time, Geralt did huff out a little laugh.

“The pupils, Jaskier. You know, how cats do it.” 

“No, I do _not_ know how cats do it.” He did not sound like it was meant to be a joke. 

“Just... Wish for less light? I don't exactly have a manual.” His forced exhale sounded distinctly annoyed, but he did open his eyes and tried again. Geralt just looked on, holding tight to the ends of the cloak serving as a makeshift glorified blindfold, unsure what else he could do. After a while of a weirdly intense staring session, Jaskier's pupils shrunk to slits and he snorted in relief. The sound didn't bother Geralt as much as it did yesterday.

“Do you have to remind your heart to beat too? Am I walking around in a corpse?”

“Not _exactly_.” Jaskier rolls his eyes but his face remains relaxed, maybe even holding a certain drunkenness in the corners of his droopy eyebrows. 

  
“You know, I never realized my eyes were so striking. Are they always this vibrant or is a _you_ thing?” Geralt swallowed around a parched throat, suddenly aware of the little distance between them. 

“I... I don't know what you mean.” He opted for, straightening up and walking away. Jaskier made a strange choked-up grunt, trowing the fabric aside ready for an argument, but Geralt was already away rummaging around Pegasus' saddlebags. The horse wasn't hostile but scraped his hooves on the earth every few minutes in mock annoyance.

“What are you doing?” 

“Looking for clean clothes. As should you; red bag, third pocket.” The voice wasn't cold, only firm. Geralt wasn't feeling any particular need to run back to the road anytime soon – or to run away from Jaskier anytime soon- but he needed a proper bath; or at least as proper as you get on a stream. 

“That it?” Jaskier insisted, stilling Geralt's movements by holding the bags closed with the witcher's hands inside them still. 

“What is the problem now?”

“Are you just. Going to have a _shower_?” Geralt motioned to the stream with his head, looking bewildered.

“Yes? We do kind of _need_ one?” 

“In _my_ body??” The witcher paused, blinking as if to clear his mind of the absurdities of what he was hearing.

“Did you plan on not taking any baths while we are switched?” 

“I didn't plan on _anything_. Just-”

“It's not like we haven't bathed together before.” The witcher pointed, feeling a distant probing sensation of excitement on his chest. “It's not like you haven't bathed _me_ before.” That does make him blush, just a bit, and he moves his trapped hands to remind Jaskier to let go. He does, staring at the ground in front of him as if that was the most shocking news he ever heard.

“And by the love of everything holy, take those twigs out of my hair, will you? It almost looks yellow by now.” Geralt went on, finally bundling up Jaskier travel clothes and taking them to the rock they had started the previous night in. Jaskier was still staring at the ground, gracelessly, like a very surprised dead fish.

“Jaskier.” The witcher called after a while of not hearing anything. When he had no forthcoming response, he bent down, picked up a rock and threw it at his feet.

“What?” The bard rasped. 

“What do you mean, _what_? Get clean for fuck's sake.”

Jaskier got clean. 

After a frankly ridiculous amount of fumbling for a man his age, but at this point the only important parts are the results. He scrubbed, passing the small chunk of scentless soap between them without making eye contact. Geralt seemed to have no problems concerning some distorted sense of privacy, but he did make an effort to not look at his own body moving a few meters behind him. 

The quiet was not a companionable space and despite feeling the urge to say something, anything to fill it and take the attention away from the very awkward silence hovering above their heads, Geralt just didn't know what he _could_ say. He felt as if there were words right behind his teeth, but everytime he opened his mouth they were gone as if they have never been. There were words behind his eyelids everytime he closed his eyes, but they were muddled as missing jigsaw pieces of a snowy scene. There was a lot, _of everything_ , right within his reach but he didn't know what to _do_ with any of it. His usual poetic thoughts were fleeting and more abstract than anything needing words. Is this why Jaskier was always singing? Should _he_ try singing? It's not like his own body didn't know how to do it, but it felt like a barrier he couldn't cross, somehow. Seeing each other's dicks was one thing but meddling in something as intimate as Jaskier's music seemed just a step too far. 

Geralt shuffled a bit anyway, trying to get closer to the bard without looking, figuring he should at least ask. Jaskier had _offered_ it earlier, hadn't he? He couldn't be so repulsed by the idea. The witcher moved hesitantly, not wanting to bump into the bard by accident but _then_.

Then there was a low rumbling sound to his right, sounding closer than it had any right to. It could be only one thing, and yet Geralt found himself wishing to anyone that would hear for him to drop suddenly deaf. 

“What... Are you...” He asked so low he knew Jaskier only heard it because right now he was not human. The rumbling took a time to stop still, as if the bard wasn't embarrassed in the slightest being caught up like that.

“It's unconscious, I suppose. l forgot for a second that swapping bodies _also_ means swapping voices.” Geralt only blinked, unable to find anything to say. He turned slightly, just enough to put Jaskier in his field of vision. The bard was smiling, wringing the excess water from the -now white- hair. “I wouldn't have guessed for you to be such a good singer, I'll admit.”

“I'm _not_.” Geralt felt oddly bashful, and Jaskier's laughter was deep, warm and completely unguarded and it made the witcher shiver. He couldn't tell why anymore. The gleam of the half blocked sun made his colorless skin almost look alive, and if he was careful to not move the bard from his peripheral vision, even the scars could fade away. If he pretended hard enough, he could say he was seeing human, that he was seeing himself as he would be had his mother not left him for dead.

“Lacking technique, sure. _I_ have that in spades, and you sound _amazing_.” It was a more sincere compliment than Geralt expected and apparently more enthusiastic than Jaskier meant to give, and both went back to their awkward silence acutely aware of it. They got out of the stream fast after that, and dressed even faster. 

Geralt was fumbling with the snaps on the layered jerkin, fingers finding purchase only to slip away again when he looked up in frustration, ready to ask for help because he just wanted to be _clothed_ again _damn it,_ when he realized two things.

One, begin that Jaskier could get _out_ of his armor easily enough, seeing as he had helped Geralt take it off multiple times. He couldn't seem to figure out how to put it _on,_ though.

Second, his hair was clean alright. Damp, still. Pulled up in four braids atop his head, hanging loosely from a haphazard bun on the back.

Geralt stared. And stared some more. He could hear from where he was standing near the horses a continuous hum, raising and falling neatly spaced and timed as if Jaskier was running scales. The bard looks so delighted doing that, that the expression it puts on his marred face doesn't make Geralts turn his guts in despair althrough the sensation it puts on his belly is remarkably similar.

“Right.” He called, louder than he needed to, face warming slightly and giving up on the over jacket. He walked to a low rock and pointed to the bigger one next to his. “Come over. We have to talk.” 

“Why is it such a big deal? You clearly already knew something about singing, I'm just helping you along.” Jaskier complained but went anyway, shirt buttoned half the way up and cuffsleeves rolled down.

  
“It's not about--" Geralt sighed, breathing deep to force the redness of his cheeks back into oblivion. “I could enjoy lunch a lot more if we have a clear next step, don't you?”

“...Yeah.” Geralt slumped, and waves his hands to the sky like a particularly angry bird.

“The thing is, the faeries didn't say much before we blacked out, did they?” Jaskier nodded.

“Unless they said something when we were already blacked out.”

“ _Unlikely_. In any case, not like we could use that to plan out a work around.” Geralt picked up a stick from the ground and used his feet to clean a patch of dirt form grass and other sticks. “We have three things.” He marked down some straight lines. “They made us pick our part in their game. They picked you, to make the choice. Which does point to this beign more a curse on you than on _both_ of us.”

“Wonderful.”

“If I'm right then it truly is; it simplifies things absurdly.” Geralt scratched three squiggly little simbols bellow his first lines. “What did they offer, again?”

“The truth you desire most.” Jaskier quoted sounding constipated. Geralt spared a questioning glance at him, but his face was impassive.

“ _Right_ , that. They made a point of forcing your hand, so I only imagine the truth you desire most is actually what _they_ desire most.”

“What? How are we supposed to know what _they_ want?” 

“They are begins of chaos, Jaskier. They want whatever it is you have that could wreak havoc, on your life, preferably on multiple people's lifes. Which begs the question...”

“I only have blackmail material on important politicians wive's. Which doesn't serve me anything unless we _really_ need the money. And on you. But I don't see how that's usefull in this case?”

“What does that even—No, don't say anything. They aren't concerned with _politics_. They want the one thing you keep that could ruin you, _personaly_.” Jaskier dropped his gaze to the ground were Geralt is scribbling and leaves it there. 

“What should I even do with that, then? We have to go back to those woods, write it on a piece of riverbed rock and throw it at them at midnight?” He sounded bitter and resigned, tired and ashamed. Geralt carefully put his stick aside, throat closing in sympathy.

“No, you just have to say it under a moon cresting like it was on the day it was casted.”

“That's all? Just say some words under a full moon?” Jaskier mocked, but it was flat and tinged with a something of desperation. “No blood of a virgin or the eye of a seventh son?” Geralt pursed his lips but kept his voice level despite his inner mess,

“You have to say it, and _mean_ it.”


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope all of you are safe from the virus guys. Here in Brazil people don't seem to be too worried about it, so we aren't in quarantine, unless it's self imposed. But i hope all of you out there are doing okay. Working on more chapters and one shots to help keep you at least entretained, which is the only thing i can do, but still.

Jaskier was deathly silent for the remainder of the day.

Geralt was the one filling the charged silence, talking frequently though with long pauses, ranting about faery lore, the sweat running down his back he wasn’t used to anymore and just generally using Jaskier as a sounding board to bounce his thoughts off.

A distant prodding in his head was screaming for him to be embarrassed, to flush with shame and stuck his head underground until the next century, but it was _distant_. He could gladly ignore it, could gladly fill the space left by Jaskier reticence, and the rest of their lives right now was too daunting to deal with anyway so that was _enough_.

And besides, they had twenty seven days before the moon would be full again. So, they had time.

More or less.

“Gods I _swear_ I never realized how annoying I can actually, _honestly_ , be.” Jaskier huffed, voice rough from hours of _not_ speaking. “At least your chatter is interesting, how do you _cope_ with me?” Geralt snapped his mouth shut, turning on Roach to look back at him.

“I... Don't hate your chatter.” He offered, hesitance coming from not knowing how to translate the feeling rather than unwillingness to share, “I... _Don't_.” He finished lamely, but Jaskier was looking at him as if all the answers of the universe were suddenly held within his old body. The yellow eyes gleamed, unmoving, and Geralt found the usual repulse and hardship of maintaining eye contact didn't come. Something else twisted up his insides, and while it wasn't completely pleasurable it was... Pleasant, he supposed. Not unlike the cold down on your belly when you jumped from a very high place and hit the water bellow not grazing on any rocks.

“Hm.” Jaskier let out, not seeming to have intended to, and that made both of them stop on their tracks. Jaskier blinked twice and then broke down laughing, the tension form the morning _gone_ from the padded shoulders. Geralt found it impossible to not join in, and no shame came with the joy.

“Well I suppose I know why you do it all the time now.” The bard murmured. The laughter died down, and Jaskier's yellow eyes were still glued to Geralt's face. There was a crackling intimacy in the moment, one Geralt noticed and found he didn't mind. There was a definite thrill to be standing there, at the knife's edge of a choice even though he didn't know what his options _were_. It felt important, much like a turning point for the rest of his life, but he didn't know what that entailed and somehow that only made him feel _more_ elated. He felt his body shaking, from giddiness this time, restless in a _good_ way and did the best he could to not blink or look away either.

He also noticed that the amusement from the bard lend to his face a... _comforting_ kind of look. It wasn't hideous, it didn't make him want to claw those eyes out with a stick anymore. He didn't exactly knew what to do with that information.

“Geralt.” Jaskier's voice was very low, and while the softness was still there he looked much more serious now.

“Yes?” A beat passed, and Jaskier broke their bubble by looking to the side, to the road ahead.

“...Where are we going?” Somehow, Geralt knew that was not what he was going to say. But even more baffling was the sense that he should not press the matter. The witcher swayed atop his horse, suddenly realizing how lightheaded he was feeling.

“You call my chatter interesting, yet you tune me out.” He grumbles after a while. The words are there as a distraction, for he doesn't try to tilt them as jest. Jaskier notices all of it; the pauses, the tone, what was said and what was left unsaid. He pretends he doesn't.

“I was out of it.” Is the only offered answer and Geralt supposes he can't blame the man; most of the times he isn't listening to Jaskier he is zoning out to a place he doesn't even _know where it is_ after he comes back.

“We are going to try another possible way out. Not a very likely one, but at this point it doesn't hurt to consider.”

“At this point _nothing_ is out of the table, dear.” The endearment comes easily, slips without Jaskier himself noticing, just as he had done so many times before, but Geralt turns sharply back around nudging Roach to trot again because he _knew_ what that did to him while on his own muted body, and had a good inkling to what it would do to _this_ body.

He heard Pegasus crushing the ground right behind him, and it did nothing to calm his burning face, chest and even his hands. He couldn’t hide how loud his heart was, or control the smell he was presenting the other man with but he was pretty sure Jaskier didn't learn to interpret _that_ bit in tree days so he figured his mortification was his own, for now.

\---

They follow the Pontar downwards until Rinde, and then they are forced to stop at the inn, for Jaskier's body is heavy and difficult to move around after the two day's ride along the river. Geralt would just continue to push forwards, but Jaskier is firm and he finds it very challenging to disagree with that voice. So they hand over their horses to the stable at the back, Geralt takes his bag from Roach and reaches, as if on instinct, to the lute strapped to Pegasus. Jaskier grabs his hand, shoves it down and tugs him round the corner out of sight of the stable-boy.

“Unless you are planning to use it, I suggest leaving it there.” The bard starts before Geralt can ask. “People see a lute and they don't really expect anything else form you besides a performance. To add insult to injury, while my face may not be very recognizable, yours _is_. I haven't heard of another pair of traveling bard and his witcher going around, have you?”

“ _Your_ witcher?” Is all Geralt says and Jaskier groans, thumping his head on the back wall.

“Did you hear a word of what I just said?”

“ _Crystal_.” He replies. “But we did not think this through, did we? I think there is money left for a room for a night or two, but not more than that. You can't fight, I can't sing.” There is a finality on his tone that is very familiar in it's defeat.

“Shut up” Jaskier barked but his smile was suddenly wicked “And that's were you are wrong. I _can_ fight, thank you very much, and you _can_ sing, as I have proven today.”

“You can fight with _humans_ , Jaskier. You can't take on contracts. And I am not a _bard_ for fuck's sake.” Jaskier grabs his arms then, pinning them back down and his eyes shined with a crazed tint Geralt could recognize even on his own face.

“Whatever you are thinking-”

“We have almost a month left, Geralt. We have to adapt, don't you think?”

“Adapt, yes, but whatever you mean-”

“So we will just have to _teach_ each other.” The silence was so thick that Geralt felt he could slice through it with a knife. Then,

“Have you _lost your goddamn MIND?_ ” Geralt's roar was silenced with a heavy gloved hand but Jaskier didn't look even a little bit discouraged by the outburst.

“ _Listen to me._ We _need_ money, we can't survive on rabbits alone; It would be a _miserable_ month not to mention you and me both need a fucking _bed_. A real one, high off the ground and with _pillows._ _And a bath._ ”

“You never bothered so much about these things before, what has _gotten into_ you?”

“I won't say i like sleeping of the ground. _You_ , on the other hand, _bothers_ a whole lot.” Geralt was shocked into silence, wondering from where Jaskier took such truthful insights to his persona.

“I never said-"

“You didn't need to. Swap or no swap, you are very easy to read.” Jaskier's tone was low again, soft and unbearably fond. Again, the closeness, the words, the voice, the grip he still had on the witcher should have felt suffocating, paralyzing. It felt... like many things, and none of them were suffocating.

“You have no idea what you are talking about.” Geralt mumbles, shoulders relaxing against his flimsy will. Jaskier smiles, fangs on display, and nothing stirs inside Geralt besides an idle curiosity to _poke_ them even though he knows exactly what they feel like.

“I _know_ you, you clod. Just stop pushing at me for once, will you?”

“I don't think this is a good idea.” Geralt says in place of an answer.

“That's not a no.”

“...If we must.” Jaskier's smile is just like his usual bright and straight one, and the feeling isn't lost because it's expressed on a scarred face.

“First lesson!” He moves away for a moment only to jab a finger into Geralt's back. “Back straight! I didn't spend years on corsets for you to ruin my perfect poise.” The witcher danced away from the stiff fingers, batting the pale hands away but obediently straightened his spine.

“Corset aren't meant for that.” Is all the jab he manages to find.

“No, but then again, I'm not a woman.” Comes the easy comeback. “Arms loose if you please, don't cross them and take that glower out of your face.” He continues on as if no interruption happened.

“And put it into yours.” Geralt mumbles and finds it easy to settle back into the bard's instructions. Surprisingly, Jaskier does listen to him as well, trying a few times to wipe the smile and the teasing off his face. He looks distinctly more nausea-inducing now, but it's much easier to not let that get to his head and just focus on the instructions the bard is dolling out.

“Your walk is stiff; everything about you is. Loosen up, or at least loosen up the hips.”

“Do you want me to walk around as a drunkard?” Jaskier is clearly trying very hard to keep from smiling.

“Well, that might not be a bad goal. Actually, would be simpler for you, wouldn't it?”

“Fuck you.” Geralt says but finds it's much more difficult to hold his amused smile in. Jaskier claps and the noise echoes from the alley.

“Mind your strength. And your volume. It carries over easily and is misinterpreted even easier.” Jaskier nods, and Geralt can only hope that means he actually understands the strain of keeping himself in check around other humans. “I'm serious. Just looking for tooctoo long could end up with someone loosing an eye. Or a head.”

Jaskier looks at him for a moment, searching, and then nods slowly. “Lets try to get a room, yes? We can continue in the morning.”

“Then, it's best you leave the talking to me.” Geralt begins, walking to the other side of the building. Jaskier follows by his side, fiddling with the sword straps.

“You, _talking_?”

“Weren't you just a second ago saying we needed to learn to adapt?” He shoots back, but feels guilty by the heat in it immediately. “No one is going to give me the time of day, Jaskier. They always respond better to you. _Stop_ fidgeting.”

“They don't hate you as much as you think, Geralt.”

“And they don't love me as much as you think.”

“Are we on this again? I told you-”

“I am four times your age, Jaskier, and I have been around this entire Continent at lest double that. It takes more than songs to change people's natural fear of the unknown, specially since their fear is so scarce that there are few who still remember us from when we were many. It's a fear that carries over generations, and I don't think there is nothing you or _anyone_ can do to change that.” Geralt's voice isn’t angry, he sounds bone deep _weary_. Jaskier lifts his chest and shakes his head firmly.

“Well you and your conformity _can kiss my ass_ when I make all of you into loved criptids.” On anyone else, it would have sounded like empty bravado. Jaskier says it with such conviction that some part of Geralt, in that moment, truly believes him.

“You are ridiculous.” He says, protesting to hide how much his heart is melting. He's pretty sure it's melting and dripping from his very pores, pooling on the ground like rainwater.

“You wouldn't have me any other way.”


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, sorry this took so long but i got into a writers block after such a long time not writing that I almost forgot what it even was, and I did not handle It well. I feel like this is all off pace, but i didn't want to stay longer without posting so. Have it, i might redo it once i can look at it again.

Turns out, Geralt did manage to land them a room. He didn't get the bath, but that was more because he forgot about it after the winning smile the innkeep gave him than not having tried. 

“We should have looked for a spell like this _years_ ago! Look at you, all verbose.” Jaskier said with a strange tightness to his voice, and Geralt paused his struggle to get his boots off slumping on a chair near the bolted door, tone too familiar on his own gruff monotone for his liking.

“What is it now, damn it? I don't _actually_ have a problem talking you know.”

“ _Now_ you don't! After letting me do all the work for what, _ten years_? And here I was thinking I _was_ helping, how foolish of me.” Jaskier is ranting while he peels off his armor, forceful and clearly not paying enough attention to it, but careful enough still to not just drop all the leather and steel to the floor in a tangled heap. Geralt has a sudden insight that leaves him reeling, tongue grinding like sandpaper on the roof of his mouth. 

“You... Do know I _am_ more than a hundred years old, correct?”

“How could I forget?!” That seemed very much like the wrong thing to say, just then. Geralt pushed a hand down his face, sighing.

“ _Jaskier_.” While Geralt did intend to soften his voice and drown the argument before it properly began, neither he nor Jaskier expected the sheer _honey_ that dripped instead. The bard froze midway to dropping the chest piece on the dresser, and Geralt resisted the urge to slam his head down the tabletop in exasperation. No barriers between mouth and brain, not even when he was trying to put them up with all his willpower. Which admittedly, in this form, wasn’t a whole lot.

“Sorry.” Jaskier says, after a long silence. “That was uncalled for.”

“No, come here.” Geralt insists, feeling the heat in his face but refusing to acknowledge it. Jaskier does go to him, hesitant, and lightly drops to the opposite chair. “Is there anything else like this swimming around in your head?” Despite the sharpness of the words, there isn't malice in them. Jaskier can smell a new scent flowing around the witcher, strong enough to not be a way to mistake it for someone else’s smell, but faint enough to indicate the feeling, whatever the sharp citrus _is_ , is not that strong.

“A lot of them, I imagine. It's not like I can just pick them out, though.” 

“There is that.” Geralt pauses. His jaw is clenched tight, his eyes focused in a way Jaskier rarely saw in himself. “Then I'll just-” The smell that raises now is stronger, and Jaskier has to try very hard to not recoil from the acrid scent that reminded him so much of that night near the river. Geralt swallows thickly and even his ears can probably hear the noise. “No, no. Never mind. Go on, then.” 

Jaskier stares. 

Geralt also stares. Into the fire, face turned away as much as he can manage. 

“Well,” Jaskier begins slowly, unsure, “Maybe you should just go to sleep. We have a lot to prepare for your performance tomorrow.” 

“ _Tomorrow?!_ ” Geralt is as easily distracted as Jaskier usually is, and he doesn't feel an ounce of shame about using his own body against the witcher. 

“ _I know_ , but we had an okay lunch and nothing good is going to come off today if you go down there right now and tries to charm the inn out of their pockets, so we can manage to start tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow isn't enough _time_!” Geralt protests, whining, “The fuck you think we can archive in one night?” 

Jaskier's raised brows are firm, even a little mean.

“You will be sleeping and resting that voice. And _I,_ ” He taps firmly the shoulder closest to him, jabbing his thick finger in as if he might conjure magic up by sheer stubbornness, “Will be planning our route for tomorrow.”

“No way! What do you-”

“ _Bed_ , Geralt.” And he isn't shouting, isn't even particularly leaning to tower over him, but Geralt feels dwarfed immediately, the gentle firmness in the tone of grinding gravel making him pause and reconsider. It's really difficult to fight the order he had been given, and idly Geralt thinks that if this is how it feels for Jaskier all the time. “Go on.” 

Without thinking too much about his complacence, Geralt does as he is told. As soon as he hits the pillow he is out cold, and Jaskier takes another moment to look over him, curious gaze moving up and down like he isn't sure what is important to focus on. 

Geralt's apparent complacency for orders- because he, himself, only listens to them in order to disrespect as much of them at once as he possibly can- is definitely something he doesn’t want to be thinking about now. 

\--- 

The next morning, Geralt is awoken by the hurtful sheen of the overcast morning coming in through the obscenely wide open windows and Jaskier almost shouting right next to his ear,

“ _Up._ We have a lot to cover today if we want dinner and _maybe_ another night in a bed.” The witcher had barely time to open his eyes when a warm mug is begin shoved into his face. Distantly, he is still trapped in a dream, a purple haze with an unpleasant air that leaves his hands trembling and his heart racing, anxious and afraid of an unseen foe.

“What is this?” His voice breaks and refuses to come out before he swallows a few times. It sounds as small as he feels but Jaskier is back at the small table on the corner, bag open over it with what looks like all it's contents spilling out, and doesn't seem to notice.

“Lemon water and honey. Drink in big gulps.” He does drink it, shivering as he might if riding on the last waves of hypothermia. His fingers aren't blue though. He feels his very _lungs_ shivering too. 

“What's this for?” He asks, desperately grasping at any lines he can to not be silent listening to his brain trying so very hard to drag the dream back into view. 

Jaskier comes back to sit beside him with his hair frizzy and even darker circles bellow his eyes. “To clean out your throat. And this” He waves the red cord he is holding around, “Is going to be your very best friend in the foreseeable future.” 

“What?” Geralt is speaking lower, afraid it might crack again if he goes louder, but Jaskier also doesn't notice it.

“First lesson! Breathing jams. Arms up.” He goes forward to tie the cord in the largest part of his ribcage, arms shoved up when Geralt is too slow to comply. The witcher looks on, almost feeling detached from the body being moved. The contrast of the pale, washed-out skin in front of him with the vibrant red of the rope tells a part of Geralt what he already knows, but woke up too jumbled to notice before. Jaskier is _tired_.

Not tired as in, _I walked the entire day soaked to the bone can we please have a bath and go to sleep_. Tired as in the weariness that comes from too many years living the same lives, too many years seeing the same stories unravel again and again and again. He looks tired the way Geralt always feels, and something in his hitched up shoulders tells the witcher Jaskier is aware of everything that happened since he woke up. 

“Right. Breathing.” He feels the need to try his hardest to show some presence, even if just to distract the bard from his own head. His own head, that now had _Geralt's_ own head in it too. “I can do breathing.”

Jaskier's smile is -there is no other word that Geralt can pull up beside it, really- _fond_ , if a little disbelieving.

\------ 

“I give up, _please_ no more.” Geralt cries, back collapsing forwards again, jaw cramped and head light and fuzzy.

“Hurts, doesn't it?” Despite the tone, Jaskier relents and offers him the mug of water again. “Doesn't look like much work from the outside.”

“No, it doesn't.” Geralt wheezes out. His face is flushed and his eyes glassy. “How much more of this? The sun is midpoint already.”

“Well, sing something.” 

“What?”

“How else are we supposed to see if it's working?” Geralt flounders, leaning back as if struck, and closes his eyes.

“I don't think this is _going_ to work.” He mumbles. “Even if I can sing like you I _can't_ do all the rest.” Jaskier sigh is heavy, and Geralt feels like a used and torn shirt for begin the cause of it.

“We can find another way, I suppose. I _have_ some measure of slow ballads, but coins flow better if the song is happy.” Geralt shakes his head, moving his hands even though he can't open his eyes just yet.

“No, no, I'll manage. Come on, what's the secret?” 

“None that can be taught on half a day, I'm afraid.” 

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable but isn’t _nice_ to be in either. Jaskier prods the leg closest to him, shaking it until Geralt opens his eyes.

“Where were you headed before we stopped?” 

“Why? I don-” Geralt cuts himself off, jumping upright again. “ _Triss_.”

“She's a friend, yes? Do you think we could-”

“ _Probably_ , yeah. If nothing else then she will like to see this shitshow.” Geralt says, equally relieved and embarrassed. Jaskier frowns, looking ready for an argument. “She is staying in Tretogor, last I heard. We can get there by nightfall if we leave _now_.” Geralt barrels on, already out of the bed towards the packs.

“Do you think she will be able to help us?” Jaskier asks while the witcher moves about, his voice low and something in its tone makes Geralt thoroughly distressed, restless right down to his bones. He pushes more clothing inside a bag that clearly can't hold much more, closing it by half laying on top of it.

“I don't think so, no. She _might_ know someone though.” Jaskier hears the _“I doubt it”_ as clear as day. He considers for a moment just throwing it all backwards into the ground and going out there to hunt something but he is a rational man. _Mostly._

The danger of Geralt singing is a few whispers about Jaskier's reputation. The danger of going out there to hunt even a pack of wolves as they are however, isn't _nearly_ as forgiving.

“Let us be off then.”

\--- 

The house Triss is staying in more modest than what Jaskier was expecting, but much more than Geralt was comfortable with. 

“Maybe this isn't such a good idea.” He is murmuring. “If she's on the upper district means she's here on a noble's behest, it's probably something _big_ and-” Jaskier just goes and knocks twice on the red door, crossing his arms. Geralt goes silent, staring at the bard with his mouth hanging loose, but Jaskier doesn't look back. His facial scars are standing in sharp relief in the half-light of the street lamps, and Geralt tries to feel offended, he does. But there is something in the way Jaskier clenches his jaw, keeping his eyes glued to the ornate door with focus and _intent_ , that robs him of all words. The witcher feels like he should protest, should do _something_ besides standing there like a gutted fish. All he can do instead is manage to close his mouth, and even that registers as a _victory_ in his head.

Takes longer than was probably necessary, but eventually the door opens softly only a smidgen. The next second, Triss is trowing it open wide, a smile lighting up her round and flushed face.

“ _Geralt_! I'm so glad to see you! And this must be your bard, isn't it? Come on in!” She doesn't give them time to speak, and pulls them in with a firmness her voice doesn't quite match. 

Geralt walks in front and stops near the first lit fireplace he sees, hands plastered against his trousers as if he doesn't know what to do with himself now. Jaskier stops closer to the door, and hears in a way so _deep_ it's almost like _tasting_ it, the hesitancy in the sorceress’s steps.

“Long time no see.” She goes on, and Jaskier can tell by the way Geralt's shoulders are high up to his ears that he hears it, too.

“Sorry to interrupt your work.” He says, trying to tilt it for humour and levity like he has seen Jaskier do a thousand times. Triss comes a step closer keeping a couch between them, eyes moving from one to the other very slowly, a jarring change from her initial enthusiasm.

“I was done for today anyway.” She nods to the chair. “Take a seat, won't you?” She says to Geralt this time. Jaskier feels the test on her words like he feels the clump of pepper on his food that didn't dissolve properly, raising the hairs on his arms.

He hesitates, tilting his head, and Geralt makes a noise like a child caught robbing biscuits almost falling off a chair might, shrill and choked. 

“We aren't a decoy, Triss. We got _cursed_.” She doesn't look any more relaxed, or any more convinced.

“ _Cursed?_ ”

“When we first met, you were bartering for a flower on the apothecary that was _way_ overpriced, and took _me_ to point out the flower was a weed that grew on the puddles near the hay fields for your drunken mind to realize Witch's Bosom wasn't _actually_ a thing.” Geralt blurts out, bouncing his legs as soon as he manages to sit down. He doesn’t look guilty of having spilled the story, and Jaskier snorts at the image before he can stop himself. 

Triss looks like she would prefer to have been slapped. “Thanks for reminding me of that.” She grimaces. Sighing, she sways and sits on the orange couch with more grace than her expression would suggest her to still have. Jaskier goes and finds himself a place near the fire as well, feeling her eyes on him the entire time.

“Body swapped?” She asks when no one says anything more. Geralt nods, raking nervous hands trough the already wrecked hair. “How did that even _happen?_ Who did you anger?”

“Hey, it wasn't even our fault.” Jaskier says. “Really, Geralt was just doing his job.”

“And how did _you_ get involved?” Is her reply, voice almost what was when she opened the door.

“Now _that_.” Geralt murmurs, voice small but charged, carrying across the room. “Is the real problem here.”


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI!  
> So, this is my last week of my semester and I think I'm finally okay enough to pick this up again. I confess I did think about abandoning it. But I felt bad starting the next on the series without finishing this one, so I pushed and I actually don't hate it anymore. Sorry for the long hiatus guys. I'm hoping to come back with posting at least once a week until it ends now, maybe some more 5 chapters. Hope it holds up!

Triss can't help them.

Geralt wasn't really expecting her to be able to, but still he feels a tiny part of him curl up on the corner, defeated. 

Jaskier on the other hand, doesn't seem bothered. That, or Geralt's face was never very expressive. It was difficult to guess, seeing as even his encounters with mirrors were very sparse through his years. And it's not like he had company that could tell him anything, either. And the only one who _could_ make an educated and fairly accurate guess was currently trapped inside the very problem body, so. Not even like he could _ask_. 

Triss went to sleep not long after they arrived, and left them with free reign of the house bar a room on the second floor that had a glowing door that even without his senses Geralt was sure there was heavy magic inside.

“Well.” Jaskier murmured after a while of the both of them staring at the crackling fire, bodies heavy after so much adrenaline leaving them, “At least that's the housing problem taken care of.”

“That's all you got to say?”

“What more is there?” Geralt ruffles his hair, turning in two quick circles before stopping himself, holding onto the mantle.

“I can't _believe_ you.” Jaskier frown is small, and his belt buckles jingle when he crosses his arms.

“One less problem, Geralt. What is wrong with that?”

A beat passes where the witcher is trying to not just go off at the bard, a beat where he centres his breath again and stares at the garish carpet.

“I... Don't know.” He admits. “It's like I forgot something I always knew, the meaning is there only until I try to see it.” Geralt turns again, sighing. “Maybe I'm just hungry.”

Jaskier hums, face cracking with a big smile now that his words aren't being stolen by Geralt's whirlwind of emotions, “To the kitchen it is, then.”

\--- 

Next morning comes, and both Jaskier and Geralt are still sleeping in front of the living room fireplace. Geralt's armour is in one of the upstairs bedrooms, as are his swords and their bags. Evening rolls around and they only wake when Triss finds them sprawled like string puppets on the rug.

“I don't even want to know how much alcohol you two consumed.” She starts, the crinkles in the corners of her eyes clearly hiding laughter, “Up, now. I need to talk to you.”

Geralt does his best to answer her, but finds his tongue stuck at the back of his mouth, his limbs heavy and his head hurting, his mind somewhere between awake and asleep; caught in the tendrils of a dream he wants to forget. He makes an almost motion with his fingers, to ask for help to send her away he isn't sure.

“Geralt?” Jaskier pokes him and he _tries_ , he really does, but he only manages a weak moan. The dream slips away from his conscious and he can't remember anything but the dread coiling low on his belly.

“Gods, what did you two _do_?”

“We _ate_. Bread, some cheese and pastries. This-” Jaskier touches his forehead with a cool hand that does wonders to centre his rattled head, “Is probably a nightmare.” Even then, he doesn't sound too sure. 

“A _nightmare_?” She is visibly not convinced and crouches on Geralt's other side hovering her hands above his head. The witcher feels a strange tugging -almost the complete opposite of the probing sensation Yennefer's mind-reading always has- at the front of his temples, and with a delicate press of fingers Geralt sits up as if springloaded.

Triss's green eyes are the first thing he sees, and she looks much more worried now than she did yesterday.

Jaskier's face appears next, hands on his shoulders and Geralt can't stomach the softness in his own face.

“I don't _think_ I had a nightmare.” He whispers down to his breeches. Jaskier frown deepens, body still while Triss helps Geralt up into one of the couches. The bard stares at Geralt's wide eyes, his own wide blue eyes, and he feels the same urge to wrap him up in a blanket and never leave the front of the fire again.

“What was it about?” 

Geralt blinks, shaking his head slowly. “I can't remember.” And he doesn't look like he wants to say it, but it slips out nonetheless, “But I think this might be more transference than a simple nightmare.” 

“Transference?” Jaskier says, feeling himself shake but he knows by now that none of the others can see it. “Just like when I _asked_ if we could turn into each other and-”

“No.” The witcher manages a watery smile, “Your memories, most likely repressed ones, are trying to come up now that they don't have your reins on it.” 

Jaskier's swallow isn't audible now with the sounds of the evening filling the spaces, but it is _visible_. “So, you are saying that you are experiencing my undesirable memories?” 

“Not _quite_.” Triss interjects from behind the couch, “Mind magic is always trickier than the rest. Listen, I called Yennefer last night and-”

Geralt turns so fast he falls off the couch, voice going up several tones while Jaskier drops his head back to the ceiling, thinking if it's worth it to start believing in any gods at this point.

“Why would you??” He pants, looking and smelling like firecrackers. “ _I trusted you_!”

“You didn't say anything about _not_ telling her!” She points, face reddening. “Besides, she is one of the best with mind magic why don't you want her to know? Actually, why _haven't y_ ou contacted her already!?”

Right at that moment, as if intended and rehearsed, a loud bang echoed in the room, a strong gush of wind soon following. 

“Ow, _come on!_ ” Geralt moans, hiding his face between his bent knees. 

Yennefer steps out of the portal in a long dress, holding a heavy velvet bag. The expression on her face upon seeing what she walked in on is intended as carefully blank, but Jaskier can see her biting her cheek to stop from smiling. 

“This is quite the welcome party.” She drawls. 

“ _Go away_ , this isn't happening.” Geralt says from his place on the floor. His head stays down, and some of the absurdity of it all is finally getting to Jaskier; enough for him to want to laugh too.

“So very mature.” She turns to Jaskier and Triss then, eyes narrowed, calculating glint in her gaze “Care for a drink?”

“No.” Geralt half murmurs, half screams, face turned to the bard instead. “ _No_ drinks.” He repeats. Jaskier pretends he doesn't feel those blue eyes tearing him apart from the inside, pretends he doesn't know why Geralt suddenly hates the sight of Yennefer as much as he hates the sight of a coinless pouch. 

“Since you are here I assume you will help us?” Yennefer seems very aware of just what he was thinking but surprisingly she doesn't look smug. Her face smoothes out into something that is barely-there; a twitch that could be a smile, could be a frown. 

“I will listen.” She corrects. “Sit.”

\--- 

Jaskier already knew that asking for help from Yennefer wasn't a good idea. It was difficult to remember exactly why in this body, but it was one of the things he had such certainty in that it carried over, even if just a tiny little bit.

But even in this body, he couldn't interpret her smile as anything other than trouble.

“Let me guess, you want something in return.” He says, trying to push some kind of anger into his voice but finding it flat and lifeless still. 

“Oh, not at all. I wouldn't ever charge for a job I didn't do.” 

Geralt is the first to break the silence, with a forced and bitter laugh “Of course not.” Triss left them about an hour pass with a sombre expression and worried glances. Jaskier understands why, now.

“Shut up Geralt.” He barks. That, at least, carries the way he intended. “It's not like we don't already know how to break it.”

“Haven't you been listening, _damn it_?” The witcher growls, face reddening around the sides and down his neck. “It's a shot in the dark, _not_ a real solution. At worst we are stuck like this forever, and _then what_? I-”

“ _Stop it_.” Yennefer waves, and wind blows in fast trough the open glass windows, “It's not permanent. I could lift it, but not without a great amount of effort and resources.” 

“ _Oh you b-_ ” Jaskier naked hand is clamping down on Geralt's mouth before he can say anything else and it requires all the strength he now has to keep the witcher from squirming out of his grasp. The witch looks more amused by the second and every inch of her smirk seems to make Geralt want to roast her tongue over a campfire.

“Care to explain?” 

“It will pass, less than a full month. How awful can it be?” Jaskier knows he isn't imagining her sneer _then_.

“Are you serious?” Geralt twitches his mouth out from under the pale hands and spats the question in a high pitched voice that makes the bard cringe.

“Fairy magic is intertwined with more things than just chaos. None of you are dying. Who knows,” She gets up, swirling her hands in the air to make a loud, whip-like noise, and a bright yellow light appear soon after to indicate her portal “Maybe this is exactly what both of you _need_.”

She is gone without giving them the opportunity to say more. Geralt chokes off a frustrated scream that hurts Jaskier's ears and echoes around the suddenly empty kitchen.

When Triss arrives she finds only Jaskier sitting on the couch. 


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so so much for continuing to support me even though all the mess of the last times. It means a lot to me, it really, really does.  
> This one is a little bit shorter than what I usually do, but next one is bigger; fEELINGS talk!  
> TW: Bad childhood memories, child abuse.

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“Aren't you worried? It's your own body out there, if Geralt being on the loose, alone, isn't already enough.”

“He isn't a child.”

“He might as well be one now.” 

Jaskier keeps staring into the nothing in front of him. His flat expression looks haunting in Geralt's scarred face.

“What's the _matter_ with you?” Triss shrieked, hands waving around her face like a wounded bird trying to fly, “I was led to believe you two were as good as sewn together, _disgustingly_ glued at the hip!” As she talked she got closer to Jaskier, swaying as if she couldn't decide if she wanted to sit down or keep spinning half circles on his face.

Jaskier shrugged. “Maybe that's is the point. We _shouldn't_ be so close.” The silence that follows can't even be called suffocating. Can't be called much of anything with the air so still and the noises outside seeming so very far away, the warmth from before turning from calming to stifling.

“You don't mean that.”

“Don't I?” The question sounds genuine, not caustic and resentful. Triss pauses her pacing to really take the man in. 

“It never seemed like you wanted to be anywhere else, by what all the rumours say.”

He blinks. 

There is no telling how much time passes, with the sky so dark outside. When Jaskier speaks again, he sounds like a completely different person.

“ _Fuck no_ , I'm not leaving.” He shudders as he rises from his crow-like perch on the couch, “I'm not leaving, no. I- _No._ What the fuck.” He turns half towards the door, then bounds back next to the sorceress again. “ _What the fuck?"_

\---

The skies are ominously clouded as they run by the backstreets of the city.

Far away Jaskier can hear thunder if he concentrates enough. He can register a lot of things if he concentrates enough. Now though, he is chasing a scent he thinks he recognizes; a scent of lemongrass faint and washed out by a fog of cloying anger. 

He dashes through the archways, glued close to the wall. Triss keeps up and keeps silent and Jaskier never understood just how much silence was a valuable thing for Geralt until that moment.

Some part of him is vibrating as if made out of molten dimeritium; high strung, anxious and terrorized of what he will find at the other end of this trail. The other part, the one Jaskier is pretty sure is himself, feels _beyond_ drained. He knows, or at least has a very good idea of what triggered Geralt's escape and seeing all of _this_ from the outside when he has learned to more or less control it, is... It's _daunting_ , and something that certainly explains why no one wanted him around as a child, why his teenage years were so hollow.

Jaskier always _knew_ that he was unbearable to be around. It was just that he could close his eyes to a great many things he didn't want to acknowledge and his brain did all the work on burying it so deep under piles and piles of false smiles and mournful ballads that even _he_ couldn't distinguish if those thoughts were ever there. He knows he buried lots of things; some small things like the snickers at his clothing choices, some big things like his father's disappointment, violence and anger, some monumental and earth-shattering things like the suffocating, _liberating_ feeling of falling in love with the _wild_.

He can't imagine ever having to deal with all of that suddenly being spat at his face on top of all the other problems they have; To be honest he isn't surprised by Geralt running away but that doesn't mean he _isn't_ annoyed; at himself or at Geralt is the thing he doesn't know.

Jaskier keeps running but he can't feel his feet moving; His toes dig with enough force on his downward step to give off a vertigo-like sensation of him pulling the earth beneath him, and not of pushing himself forwards to move. He keeps running but the scent is so very faint he doesn't know where to turn next and so he just stops like a fallen plank at the valley between two falling apart buildings that smell of mould and regret.

“I lost him.” He doesn't know how he gets it out for even though he isn't out of breath in the least he feels like there is an invisible hand squeezing his lungs. Triss is at his shoulder half-second later, panting, face flushed and eyes glowing; two points of eerie green shine in the twilight of the alleyway.

“We _haven't_.” She says between one inhale and the next, throwing a hand to his forehead with fingers splayed. The movement is so unexpected and Jaskier feels so godsdamn _tired_ that he doesn't really feel any fight or flight rise inside. Her touch is gone quickly anyway and then she takes off back from where they came, not bothering to say anything else.

Jaskier finds very difficult to move for a while. He stays planted where he is, embraced by the gentle cradle of the nighttime shadows, staring at the ground in between his feet. He knows he should be sprinting after the oranges-and-ginger smell Triss left behind, strong enough for him to never loose it. 

His feet still refuse to move, no matter how much he tries to, no matter how much he can envision himself turning around and following after the trail she left. His eyes are glued to the specs of darker brown dirt he can differentiate on the floor and he can't blink even though his eyes are stinging. 

The skies light up for a moment then, white light that overpowers everything it touches for just that one second. The shock of the white space it creates is enough for him to be able to break whatever the strange feeling taking hold of him is and blink again. The thunder that follows is _loud_ , so loud that he feels something warm running down from his ears. The sound is so close it takes his breath away, rolling in waves of grinding stones as if mountains are capable of speech.

When it subsides, another flash of terrible, _horrible_ light appears and this time Jaskier manages to close his eyes against it. He can't protect himself from the next thunder that runs over his head, though. He can't hide from the fat drops that start hitting his shoulders either.

When he manages to open his eyes he is _drenched,_ but his eyes are strangely clear and his head oddly silent, thought-free. His feet move before he can think to, he gives chase before he can take another breath. 

\--- 

Triss drags Geralt back to the house with such purpose Jaskier finds he can't object to the treatment. She shoves both of them inside before closing the door with a loud crack and traces of bitter ozone and rain. Geralt is suspiciously quiet throughout it all, and while Jaskier has a clear head he, too, is weary and _maybe_ shivering. 

“You two aren't leaving this house.” She says, voice cutting and not even the sight of her soggy clothes and ruined hair is enough to take away from her authority. “I'm spelling the place, none of you are leaving until you talk this out. I am going to sleep. And I don't want to hear a _peep._ Clear?”

Jaskier nods because he is pretty sure Geralt can't right now and he is _tired_ and more than ready for the day to be over. She waves and leaves in a flurry of cyan light that has no right looking so pretty in the dire atmosphere she leaves them in. 

They stand in the dark, cold hallway not saying anything. Jaskier can hear Geralt's heart beating so irregularly it might as well be punching out a song, his breath wheezing on the exhale.

“Let's warm up.” Jaskier says. He doesn't know how he drags both of them to their designated room, doesn't know how he manages to find them a spare change of clothes and push all the thick blankets off the bed and in front of the bedroom fireplace. Geralt still doesn't speak but he changes hastily and sinks into the pile of furs like a rock on a river.

Jaskier doesn't know if he is sleeping or if he fainted, but the bard knows he, himself, will not talk about anything right now, will not do anything that required more than falling like a log to the ground. He locks the door for good measure and joins the witcher-pile, tugging just enough to squeeze himself under Geralt and the furs as much as he can. 

Geralt doesn't give any signs of being present, so Jaskier closes his eyes and leaves too.

\--- 

Jaskier wakes up to hushed whispers.

There is a woman's voice, sweet but strained, talking to him. He can't make out what she is saying but he doesn't have the chance to even try; small, thin fingers wrap around his arms and while he is being manhandled around he manages to open his eyes. 

The night that greets him is only familiar in its darkness, before he takes in the smell of wet earth and beaten road beneath his bare, _small,_ feet.

He blinks down at it for a second, waiting for a panic he knows he should be feeling now, but somehow knows won't ever come.

“Listen to me,” The voice is back, clearer. He tries to turn around, to look at her, but the woman's spider-like fingers on his shoulders keep him looking forward. “I need to gather some things. You will wait for me here. Do not go looking for me, do not turn around. Understood?” Jaskier feels like he should seek warmth from that voice, from the weight of her hands. All he feels is cold.

She gives him a shove that was just on this side of too rough. “Understood?” She repeats. Jaskier wants to turn around and scream at her, bat her hands away and demand to know where he is and what she did. He opens his mouth ready for a fight, ready to rip her apart with his teeth if that's what it takes. 

“Yes, mama.” Is all that slips out instead. 

Jaskier feels like he was hit by a furious heard of cows, trampled over by fiends and wyverns.

The woman, _his mother_ , presses down forcefully on his shoulders one last time before lifting and he doesn't even hear a smashing of dirt to indicate her footsteps. He doesn't try to turn around either and some part of him knows he would not be able to, anyway. 

Looking down again, he sees a simple pair of blue trousers and shirt, a falling apart belt holding an equally beat-up wooden sword. His hands, his very _tiny_ hands, were bleeding and dirty and Jaskier had enough of those of his own to know lash bruises when he saw them. 

Somewhere that must be very far away but that sound horrendously close to his childish ears, a wolf howls loud and long. He howls alone, and the echo of it makes the body tremble. In the distance there is an outline of towers and banners, black as pitch against the shine of the half-moon. 

All around him, the forest and the path are dark. The body shivers, out of cold, out of fear. The body does not move an inch from where the woman left him.

Jaskier wakes up with a jolt, heart racing and eyes stinging in that bittersweet way they did when he needed to cry his soul out. The warmth of the fire is slowly dying out, the windows have lost most of it's oppressing lack of light. Geralt is still curled half on top on him, hands reaching to the fireplace and sleeping like a rock.

The room is the same it was the night before. The sounds are the same, the smells are the same, even Geralt didn't magically change over some hours of sleep.

There is still a sense of change the bard cannot ignore floating around his head. Looking back down, raising his palms as if on instinct, he observes. He stares at the small scars covering his fingers, at the bigger ones near his thumb, at the burn mark on his index finger that always just looked like a mole from far away.

Jaskier doesn't know what he is looking for until he finds it. 

The welt marks are very small and faded on the pale hands that lived a hundred years. Looking at them now hurt just as much as it did in the dream.


	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need to say this before i go insane: i tried to upload this FOUR TIMES and it gave me error. my internet connection has been bad these last few days but holy shit  
> That said, this is the last one before the end. I am hoping to finish the entire fic by next week. I am not sure how i feel about the end of this; feels like i have been walking with this one forever. well, there is one more still to say bye. Also, if you guys have any suggestions of another super cliche trope you would like to see next on the series, please let me know!!

Jaskier didn't go back to sleep.

Honestly, he didn't try.

He knew, on some level, that Geralt's life had never been easy. Hell, his own childhood was never rose-tinted. But there was just something about seeing those very small hands that should have been chubby still, stained red and mangled. There was something about seeing those marks laying among so many others; others that have signalled to his near-death so many times. Marks that were bigger, meaner, angrier; that would have cut off the hands and arms of a normal man.

Jaskier felt those little marks on his palms like gravestones of a different kind, a monument to a different death.

That dream must have been enough of a shock to push him out of the messy heap he had inside Geralt’s body and feel as though he was wearing a costume; seeing thoughts dragging themselves before his eyes in an agonizingly slow show of defeat, feeling his own emotions warring against the weariness of living for so long. Even so, he couldn’t tell what he wanted to do with all the things bouncing around his head; He wasn't inclined to do much more than weep to be honest: for himself, for Geralt, for the courses that pushed them to places they didn't want to be in, for the curse that showed more than Geralt would ever want to share, for the memories Jaskier never wanted to relive. 

\---

Despite his coma-like sleep, Geralt was quick to rouse when the sun showed itself through cracks on the wooden windows.

From his perch glued to the wall next to the fireplace, Jaskier watched with tired eyes as Geralt rubbed sleep from his. When the witcher looked around the room, once, and fell back on the bard as if magnetized Jaskier just knew, from the tightness in his shoulders and the pounding of his heart that Geralt, too, saw something in the night.

“I would suggest breakfast first, but...” Jaskier offered, voice no louder than the dying fire crackling at his side.

Geralt had a furrowed expression that managed to look both ashamed and unbearably sad. “Let's stop putting it off, huh?”

“I don't think we have a choice, anymore. Besides, Triss was right. You could have hurt yourself last night. Badly.”

“I'm aware.” Geralt murmured. He sat up cross-legged atop the furs, hair sticking up and an unflattering stubble making itself known on his jaw.

“Why did you run?” Jaskier started, seeing that the witcher wasn't going to elaborate. Geralt's face flushed lightly then, but his shoulders hunched as if he had been punched.

“When Yennefer left, I. Many things were very--” He shook his head, violently, “I didn't know how much you dislike her.” A pause where Jaskier feels as though he had barrelled into a brick wall and broke his nose in the middle of a festival, drunk off his tits.

“I don't dislike Yennefer.”

“What happened to honesty, Jaskier?”

“I don't dislike her.” He pressed. He knew something was screaming at the back of his head to shut the fuck up now, but it seemed very important to make Geralt understand he could live with the witch being a constant. As long as Geralt was also a constant in his life, that is.

“I know I overreact almost as a rule now, but do not patronize me. If I know anything, is that bitter rage.”

They stared at each other for a moment, not a sound around them besides Geralt’s heartbeat.

“I dislike what she is to _you_ , not her.” Jaskier decides on, throat feeling small but he knew no blush or tears would appear against his will. “But I have made my peace with it. It’s not so easy to control new feelings, I suppose, but _why_ did you run away?”

“What she is to _me_?’ Geralt murmured, stupidly. His eyes were wide but unfocused, hands tight against his pants. “What do you _mean_ , what she is to me? We are—Friends. I think. _As are you_.”

Jaskier wasn’t trying to, but he was positive he was glaring, “Are you telling me that after all this time, you still haven’t gotten _any_ transference from my body?” He barely finished talking and the witcher flushed an angry shade of cherry, mouth open and gasping, “What happened to honesty, Geralt?” He mimicked. 

“ _You—_ ” He stopped when his voice cracked, looking up to the ceiling. With a deep exhalation, all the ashamed outrage left his shoulders leaving him sagging into himself and looking very small. “I can’t- I don’t know how to separate what is _mine_ , and what is _you_.” 

All their conversations, the serious ones so far, had some version of this complaint into them. Until that moment, Jaskier didn’t quite understood just what was making Geralt so uneasy. With a rush of fondness, for this feeling of his belly dropping and his heart clenching couldn’t be anything else despite on whom it was being experienced in, Jaskier sighed, smiling.

“I always considered you a friend, you idiot. You knew this since day one, I _told_ you.”

“No, _no, I-”_ Geralt got up, stumbling for a few paces he doesn't seem to notice before walking to the window and back to the pile of furs and repeating. “That’s not what I _\- Godsdamn it_. Where are your words, Jaskier?” He cried, hands resting on both sides of his neck. Jaskier watched, seated, the feeling of fondness he was basking in suddenly offering him another translation from deep inside his head: Unease. 

“I don’t understand.” He managed to say, unable to blink and unable to move. His legs felt remarkably like they had no bones in them. Geralt spun twice in place before throwing himself back at the furs, face red near the nose more than on his cheeks, eyes shiny.

“Look, I was never going to- I would never, _never_ do anything- _If you didn’t_ \- You have to believe me, _Jaskier_.” He pleaded, head bowed. Jaskier thought he saw tears falling, but he couldn’t be sure with how his eyes were crossing. He forced his hands up to his face to make his eyes close, rubbing them forcibly.

“I always believe you, Geralt.” He managed to say, blinking his eyes open but not managing more than shallow little breaths. His body felt like flinging itself into overdrive at the same time as it was shutting down all capacities, goosebumps rising along his arms and down the legs he could hardly feel, “But I don’t know what you are talking about.”

The witcher shivered, shoulders twisting, raising his head half-way but keeping his eyes down. “I’m sorry. I am so, _so sorry_ for all of this. I never wanted to bring it up. _I’m sorry_.”

“For _what_?”

Jaskier regretted asking, regretted pushing so much the moment Geralt raised his head to look him straight on, his eyes a red brimmed that made his blue irises pop in a disturbing combination. He never saw that look on himself and doubted he ever made that expression, ever had that much weight into every twitch of his face, that he ever cradled so much sorrow inside his eyes.

When the witcher parted his mouth, what came out was low, so low and scared despite his defiant stance that took the bard a moment to catch what he said,

“ _I love you._ ”

“ _What_?” the squeak that left his mouth, in Geralt’s gruff tone, would have been funny any other day. Now though, if anything, made the witcher even more agitated.

“Not only as a friend, and I have for a long time. _I’m sorry,_ but I love you."

And Jaskier didn’t feel his body right, couldn’t move his fingers if he tried, and couldn’t muster up anything to say either, not when his head had gone so _silent_ but so full of static. Then, white engulfed his vision. 

A heartbeat later, the pain began.


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! Last one. Finally, after 12 years of waiting. I'll leave the rest for the final notes; enjoy!

There had to be, somewhere, a god that really hated him.

Jaskier knew he was mouthy and had possibly cursed every single god in existence at this point in his life, but this? This was just _excessive._

He knew gods weren’t merciful, even ones known for their kind _er_ dispositions, for gods were first and foremost vain creatures. _But this?_

The burning wasn’t new, at least not in the whiplash-like manner it had of flinging him at the abyss. The how of it seemed _off,_ though. As though he was slowly cooking now where before he had just been dropped unceremoniously into a pan with hot oil in it. It wasn’t pleasant, however slow the burning started, but it was a difference jarring enough to make him take notice. 

What _was_ new was the distant echo of thoughts that went silent in agony as much as they brushed against the edges of his awareness. Or rather, maybe that wasn’t new and he could just hear it now after so long living inside Geralt’s skin. He could live without hearing the cracking of his voice whimpering in feverish agony, though.

Despite half of him thinking, that little part that still could think, that maybe this was finally the end, they solved the riddle without any more suffering, the part of him rolling around burning from the very essence of his being was very much shouting in terror at the prospect of dying like _this_. 

Slowly, like an open head wound, his thoughts dripped out of his reach. All he could hear was Geralt’s hoarse screams, the loud thudding of his own heartbeat. The white was hurtful, pristine _, angry._ It pulled him apart, and kept pulling long after all of him had torn right down the middle. It kept pulling when Jaskier felt like he had nothing else to give, and it kept pulling long after he could no longer think anything.

\--- 

The dark that welcomed him was not unfamiliar.

Familiar, however, doesn’t mean _safe_. 

Familiar doesn’t mean _gentle_. 

The burning was overwhelming since the beginning, sweeping into the insides of his eyes and the hollows of his bones like liquid fire. It felt eerily similar to the first round of trials he went through as a child; there was no easing into it, no slow build-up to the scraping of his skin. The pain climbed higher and higher, running far above all the steps to the door of hallucination, down inside the wing of numbness in a corner of his head he avoided thinking about unless someone forced him to.

He knew then, it was just a matter of time until the pain stopped. By death or by the complete erasure of his nerves, it would stop. Mutagens build all of them up again, afterwards, just as painful and humiliating. 

This time there were no trials waiting to fix him.

\--- 

Triss finds them at the end of the night, when she comes back from the noble’s house she had been working on to find her lodgings silent and smelling of regret and bitter pain . 

She doesn’t think before sending for Yennefer, and thinks even less while she runs up the stairs to the third floor holding her dress bunched up in one hand.

The room, when she blasts it open, is clean and organized just as it was before they arrived. The only indicator of change is the pile of furs near the fireplace and Geralt’s swords hidden behind the door. 

And, to add to the unsettling atmosphere, Jaskier screaming. Or, Jaskier’s body with the full potency of his lungs behind it, only audible once she opens the door to receive it like a slap to the face.

She pauses in the doorway. 

The room thrums with energy, sour at the roof of her mouth. It is _lazy_ , the caress of its fingers, almost sleepy. It carries heaviness to it, the kind where you try to swallow a spoonful of melted chocolate and it sticks to everything inside you and doesn’t go down. 

The loud cracking of Yennefer’s portal is not enough to tear her away from here she is. 

She appearing running to her side, heels clicking violently against the floorboard is not enough for her eyes to move.

Yennefer, much more attuned to old magic than she is, notices the problem halfway down the hall to her. Triss doesn’t need to look to feel the violet eyes glowing in fierce determination, to see sparks lighting up her hands, giving her body shivers and goosebumps. 

“ _Out_.” She says, brushing past her and slamming the door shut. Only then Triss shakes herself from the almost-trance, feeling out of breath and reaching for the closed door on reflex. 

It hums and vibrates, furious; _protective._ It doesn’t burn her the way it would burn anyone else. 

Jaskier’s screams are muffled now, almost inaudible, but louder for all she knows it’s still there. Sighing, she settles on the floor in front of the door, traces a shield spell around it and waits. 

\--- 

Hours later, when the screaming stops, Triss barely has time to get up before Yennefer snaps the door open.

She looks as put together as she always does, but something in the opaque glint of her eyes tell of the deep exhaustion her shoulders hide.

“Well?” Triss probs, unsure of what else to say.

“They will wake within the hour. We shouldn’t leave them.” She nods, goes inside the room and sits at the ottoman near the little table. Yennefer joins her, leaning against her for support, silent in the way she is when worry is chewing on her brain.

“What was…the problem?” Triss murmurs, looking at the two figures lying side by side, neatly positioned as if on a coffin. She finds the sight too unnerving to look at and fixes her eyes instead at the ground between her feet. “They were fine when I left them, if a little unhinged.”

“They managed to trigger something in the curse. Some parts of their minds were locked, closed off too firmly for me to break it without risking their integrity.” Yennefer says it with a monotone, same air about her as Geralt always does when he gives off gruesome information, “It was running its course, but it had no stabilizer. They skipped some step or did something in the wrong order; it would have consumed them both to the ground, if not taken the entire neighbourhood along.”

“But now?”

“…They will wake.” Her voice is still flat, but the pause where Triss can hear all her despair says enough on its own.

“And then?” She whispers, low enough that Yennefer could ignore it if she needed to. 

She doesn't say anything else.

The redhead waits for a few more seconds, just to be sure, and then lets out a breath she hadn’t noticed she was holding. She takes Yennefer’s hand, lying limply on her lap, interlaces their fingers and settles in for more tedious and anxious waiting.

\--- 

When he comes to it isn’t a slow crawl, like it was that night in the woods; One moment he is sore, tingling and itching from where he feels burned to a crisp, and the other he lays awake, staring at a white ceiling with dark wooden beams.

It takes longer than it should have, longer than it used to, to notice he can count every vein on those dark beams some three meters above him. 

Then the steady thrum of three heartbeats, beating out of sync, knocks on his head like a mean-mannered inkeep.

Everything about breathing hurts, too. But when Geralt finally registers what it means to be back on his own body he shoots upright like a trap door, world spinning like it is after he comes out of a portal. His vision goes black just like it does then, too.

“Stay down, dumbass. I don’t want you ruining my hard work.” And even in the vertigo sensation of having his eyes open but seeing nothing more than a void, Geralt feels the first tendrils of panic abate; If Yennefer was there things shouldn’t be _too_ out of hand.

“Why did your _hard work_ blackout my eyes?” He jabs, calmer than he probably should be. His tongue feels heavy to move, his throat sore, and he knows he isn’t imagining the foreign lilt of his voice.

“Oh sweet fucking Melitele, Geralt? _Geralt_ we- Oh, _what the-”_ Jaskier’s voice sounds gruff and rough, a grinding sensation at the nape of his neck that crawls up his his spine like thousands of little spiders. When he blinks again, sight comes back to his right eye and he can see now that he looks for it, Yennefer perched on the edge of a gaudy chair. Her burning intensity, her pinched lips, are enough to give him pause.

Slowly, he looks back at Jaskier. 

He looks the same as he always does, if a little more unkempt. His clothes are the simple ones Geralt last picked, hair is still unbrushed. All of that is not anything he isn’t expecting.

The sole yellow eye on his left side seems to wave and stick out its metaphorical tongue at him.

“Your eyes-“ Jaskier starts, voice a completely different timbre this time, accompanied by his own accent and his own high-pitched, nervous undertone. “Geralt your eyes are- _Are mine?_ What did we _do_?Holie _st of shits-”_

“ _Shut up_ for a moment, will you?” Yennefer bites, coming to stand close to them. Geralt is still staring at the mismatched eyes, eyes he knows without looking that he has the other set to.

“Don’t fucking tell _me_ to shut up, what did _you_ -” Her fingers snap, louder than a normal clicking of fingers would be, fizzling pink. Geralt feels the world tilt sideways for a moment before his vision comes back to both eyes.

And it’s the _weirdest_ sensation he ever felt, to see Jaskier panicking and see himself sitting stone-faced but a little green at the same time, both scenes out of a nightmare he never had but knows will become regulars. Panic he knows it’s not his own takes a momentary hold of his chest, squeezing in a possessive grip that doesn’t relent.

“ _Godsdamn it_ , you piece _of shit_.” Yennefer is murmuring, but Geralt feels hysterical enough to not be able to swallow down the choked laugh that comes out sounding very much like Jaskier's. Yennefer snarls, clapping her hands in a burst of yellow sparks that makes everything go back to being dark.

“The _fuck_ are you doing, _you crazy lunatic_!?” Jaskier bites. It’s Geralt’s voice that comes out, as close to a growl as it ever gets, “Stop traipsing around my head! _Our head_!”

“If it weren’t for me you would be both _dead_ , _ungrateful little_ -”

With a loud crash Geralt is pushed back, head hitting the ground with enough force to actually _hurt_. Before he can even manage to wheeze out any sarcastic one-liners, any off-colour joke to mask his spinning head, vision comes back to him. It comes with a flash of light that only makes his head ache, coloured with some dark spots at the edges. When he manages to lift himself to sitting again to look for the other two, he finds Jaskier on his knees, face red and scrunched up in a sneer. Both his eyes see Jaskier, and he can only see Yennefer if he turns his head, and none of them pay him any mind in the midst of their petty showing of teeth.

Slowly, their voices start to come back to his senses, and he knows it’s a matter of time until his ears join in the hurt that’s becoming a general entity inside his eye sockets.

He sighs, drops back down and lets the fatigue he feels pull him under.

\--- 

When Geralt opens his eyes next, he is still on the ground, right where he was before nodding off. His headache is a small pinprick at the back of his awareness, an insistent ich not unlike a mosquito bite.

He can hear Jaskier’s heart beside him- he can always tell him apart for everyone else by the speed that always sounds like the bard is running. Even so, he makes the effort to sit, the world tilting and shaking but staying in place. The vertigo he felt so present before is gone, but there is a distinct yet impossible to place taste at the back of his tongue; lightning, sulfur, bisongrass and buckthorn but not as unpleasant as all of those things together should taste like.

“With us again?” Jaskier asks, voice gentle as it rarely is.

And it is only _then_ that Geralt feels his actions catch up to his mind, slamming into him with no care or caution. He keeps his eyes fixed on the corner of the bench the bard is sitting, frozen in their path by his sudden awareness.

“Geralt?” He prods, still uncharacteristically subdued. “Are you with me?”

Geralt tries, he really does, but all he can do is swallow loudly his saliva down. His eyes don’t seem to be able to blink.

“Geralt, give me a sign you are awake, aware and in possession of all your senses before I go mad or push you into another portal. _Both_ , possibly.” Maybe it is the pleading in his voice, the naked worry, _the affection,_ that does it. Haltingly he nods his head, closing his eyes. They burn, and he squeezes them together with enough force to see little purple blots before opening them again and looking over Jaskier in a quick jab to the right that would leave a normal man dizzy.

“Well, there is that.” Jaskier murmurs. He shuffles his feet behind the legs of the bench, leaning forward in an awkward angle. “What happened to you? To _us,_ for that matter?” 

Geralt still can’t manage more than a head shake. He feels frozen, petrified, pinned inside a glass case for study. He feels scrubbed raw, chest carved open just like he felt when wearing Jaskier’s skin. 

“Darling, what is _wrong_ -” He reaches for him then, hand coming so close to his shoulder Geralt can feel the heat of his like a brand. It never connects though for the witcher flinches back violently, moving the rug with him. Jaskier freezes too, eyes meeting over his stretched fingers. 

The eyes that stare back are mismatched. One blue, one gold.

He can’t look away.

The tension breaks as if it was never there.

“ _I’m sorry_.” Geralt whispers, throat closing and aching as if he spent a month and a half without speaking. “I’m sorry, I never meant for-”

“You are just fine.” Jaskier cuts him off, brows furrowing, placing his hand where he meant for it to go since the beginning. Geralt flinches again, but Jaskier grasp is firm and doesn’t waver. “If you are going to apologize for anything it better be for leaving me alone with Yennefer while you had a nap.”

The direction of the words are unexpected enough to derail the witcher, _“What?”_

“Your martyr act. Which I know isn’t an act so much as it is your default response, but.” The bard shrugs. His eyes are still glued to his face and Geralt feels unable to look away from their complementary difference.

“ _My what?_ ” He repeats, unable to do much more than echo. His thinking mind, the part that is responsible for reacting in danger, is nowhere to be found.

“You broke the curse. More or less.” Jaskier says, succinct as he never is, “Yennefer says you did it wrong though, and left us… like this.”

“I didn’t break anything.” Is the first thing the witcher manages to say, “I didn’t mean… Listen, I-” Jaskier raises both his eyebrows so high they vanish bellow his unkempt fringe. Geralt shuts his mouth with an audible click, only to let it fall open a second later. “Oh.”

“Yeah, that’s about right.”

“Oh, _fuck."_ He says again with feeling, Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder all that keep him seated. His head turns inside-out and upside-down in search of an answer to the situation, a joke, a thought, a fact that can stir it in another direction, anything to take the bard’s amused eyes off of him.

“Yennefer says-” He starts, mouth twisting too much to be anything else than a fight to keep down a smile, “She says that whatever were the conditions to the curse, you met them… _except_ the full moon. And without the full moon-”

“No stabilizer.” He finishes, grasping at the thin thread of hard facts he can bite down on. The rest pours out of him in a rush, his mind not registering the words before they leave, “No stabilizer for old magic means there is too much collateral magic that doesn’t get refocused, and absorbs into the nearest magical focus.” 

“In that case, you.” The bard nods, as if just agreeing to what he already knew. “But you were also the centre of the release, and things went a bit… tits up.”

“Why are we-” The witcher motions to his face, managing to sit up properly then, but Jaskier doesn’t take his hand back; his fingers dig into his neck as if he is afraid that if not for that sole point of contact Geralt will get up and leave. “Is it permanent?”

“Yennefer didn’t say.”

“ _How_ are you not worried about this?”

“You said you loved me.” Jaskier says quickly, almost cutting Geralt off again. The shock of the words are harsh against the slowing of his heart, and the witcher tries to back away, to put space between them but Jaskier tips against him, knees knocking together, hands grabbing at his arms and pulling. “You said you loved me, and you _must_ _have meant it._ ”

“Jaskier-”

“Don’t you “Jaskier” me, asshole. You said you _loved me_.” He sounds like he is repeating for his own benefit, voice going up and down in volume as if he can’t decide if he’s speaking to himself or to Geralt. “You meant it. _Didn’t you_?”

The witcher blinks. Jaskier’s eyes, despite not being completely blue anymore have the same anxious quality to them both. Slowly, Geralt nods. It’s barely there, almost not visible, but Jaskier picks it up and his smile is blinding this up close.

“And you thought the curse was on me.” He muses. The bard is still close, so close to almost be in his lap, smiling, holding on to him with an iron grip and smelling like rain and honey and cinnamon and he isn’t pushing away and-

“I was in your body.” It is tilted at the end, almost a question. Feeling his insides twisting as if on a cauldron, so wrong-footed he doesn’t even feel his feet anymore, Geralt tries again, “It must have been enough for-“

Jaskier's laughter is bright, as bright as the morning sun the first day out of winter, as bright as the moon reflecting on a lake in midsummer. His kiss is warm and his hands are scorching and his scent is fucking everywhere, and all Geralt can think then is, 

_Oh._

Jaskier parts from him just enough to press the words to his lips, hands gentle when cradling Geralt’s head, “I don’t much care about the _how’s_ right now. Do you?” 

He pauses even though his eyes don’t leave the witcher’s lips. Geralt feels blessed with a sudden bout of clarity when he understands the question for what it is; confession, absolution, _acceptance_.

“No, I don’t.” 

“ _Good_.” Jaskier doesn’t even let him take another breath then, but Geralt doesn’t really need it anyway. They kiss and they kiss until the fire dies and someone comes knocking on their door.

Even when they part, Geralt can still feel the ghost of Jaskier’s mouth, the lingering taste of honey and the smarting of spice. Even when they part Geralt can still feel the squeezing of his chest, the rapid beating of the heart he knows isn't his bumping shoulders with his own.

Even when they part, it feels like they are sitting pressed close at an inn somewhere, knees brushing bellow the table, living inside eachothers cloaks, impossible to be anything but a matched set to those who knew where to look.

Geralt decides then that he doesn't hate faeries anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS DONE.  
> I'll admit one thing: i'm never writing multi-chapter again, unless I have it all written beforehand. This story got away from me in so many ways that I didn't even think it could. Did I like writing it? Yes. Was it worth it? Yes. Am I tired? hell fucking yes.  
> I'm sorry for any mistakes that still passed by me and Grammarly, my only light in my adhd cursed brain.  
> Thank you all so so much for sticking until the end and supporting me through this mess. You guys rock and also kept me going even though i did consider leaving the fic. I promise to be more responsible in the next one! (That I may or may not have already started. Maybe.)  
> Hope I have entertained you anyway! until the next :)  
> (you guys can find me on twitter, also, if that interests anyone. I'm @ysmyir)


End file.
